


The Curious Adventure of the Drs. Watson

by ShinySherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Animal Death, Bodyswap, Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Love, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Time Travel, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, it's a romance adventure horror story sort of, sort of, victorianlock, with some sci-fi/magical elements, yes there will also be sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if ACD Watson and BBC Watson switched places . . .<br/><i>“Imposter!” Hands clenching the lapels of John’s coat, Holmes shoved him anew. </i><br/><i>“Yes!” John agreed, nodding, and then grimacing. “Sort of!”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bungobaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bungobaggins).



> So, eons ago, [bungobaggins](http://bungobaggins.tumblr.com) won my fic giveaway, and we hashed out this plan--what if magical book? What if time travel? What if Watsons Are Swapped? And here is the result. This fic mashes up the Sherlock ep "The Hounds of Baskerville" with ACD’s novel _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. Some plot points and some direct quotes from both are used throughout, but lots of changes as well. (You don’t need to have read any ACD for this to make sense, but hopefully it would add a layer of fun to it if you have.) Fair warning--my knowledge of Victorian life was gleaned entirely from ACD's stories, google searches, and Connie Willis' _To Say Nothing of the Dog_. Big thank yous to my fic fairies, [Armada](http://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada), [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/verymorstan), [Toast](http://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast), and bungobaggins herself for Superior Beta-Work.  
>  If real life cooperates, planning to post a chapter a week.

_**Chapter 1.** In Which John Watson is Determined (by far the kindest word for stubborn), Dogs are Sometimes Big, and Sherlocks are Sometimes Confounding_

 

John Watson was determined, which meant, of course, that Sherlock Holmes was out of luck.

Nothing would move John to give in, not matter what variety of tantrum his partner decided to throw in front of their potential client, who sat, suspicious, in the red armchair John usually occupied. Beyond her expertise as a psychologist, Dr. Louise Mortimer was clever, and certainly perceptive enough, John thought, to see that the detective and the army doctor were in the midst of an argument. Only minutes before she arrived, Sherlock had been grinding out threats to both John and Mrs. Hudson in his desperation to have John reveal where he had hidden Sherlock’s cigarettes. Now, peevish and agitated, Sherlock drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair, and John frowned at him from his seat near the desk.

John turned to her and said calmly, “Dr. Mortimer, please take your time.”

As the striking woman with golden skin and earnest brown eyes sat before them and related the situation, John did his best to listen, despite Sherlock’s fidgeting. The case was not to be believed--a sort of canine demon targeting her patient, Henry Baskerville. She clearly didn’t believe it herself, and yet the death of the man’s father was real enough.

“The police haven’t gotten anywhere. Can you help?” she asked, looking at them in turn.

“Of course--”

“Can’t possibly get away from London right now,” Sherlock declared, standing and buttoning his jacket.

John only stared up at Sherlock as he paced over in front of the desk at John’s left.

“No, I’ve a very important case of blackmail to attend to and it will take all of my considerable attention for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock continued, his tone appropriately apologetic though John knew without a doubt that he was shamming.

He narrowed his eyes and then glanced over to Louise, who was, understandably, showing signs of irritation.

“You might have said so to begin with, rather than wasting my time, Mr. Holmes,” she said, her jaw tight.

“Oh, but we’ll take the case,” Sherlock said airily.

Ready to throttle his flatmate, John asked, “We will?”

“Of course.” Sherlock reached over and patted John’s shoulder significantly. “Putting my best man on it.”

Coming from anyone else, it would have been a compliment, but since Sherlock had never called John his best anything, it hardly seemed like he was choosing this moment to be sincere. No. This was a bluff--by an overgrown twelve-year-old in a snit.

“Yes, Dr. Mortimer,” John said, standing before Louise and nodding. She stood also, smoothing her dress, and she shook his outstretched hand.

John nodded. “I’ll come out on the first train tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock’s fake smile dropped and his brows drew together so tightly that John nearly grinned.

“Will Mr. Holmes be joining you after, then?” Dr. Mortimer asked, confusion flitting across her angular features.

“Oh, certainly,” John answered. He glanced at Sherlock. “If I need him.”

Sherlock’s mouth popped open.

John steered their client towards the door, helping her into her coat. “We’ll get this sorted; won’t take but a few days,” he promised, his hand giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he led her to the landing and down the steps.

When he returned upstairs, Sherlock was still stood in the middle of the sitting room, right where John had left him. Reaching around Sherlock to get to the coffee table, John picked up the large manila envelope there that Dr. Mortimer had given them, carefully placing all the items back inside, down to the last slip of paper. Unable to resist any longer, John took a step in front of Sherlock and looked up at him. The disdainful mask was firmly in place now, and John gazed back politely in return.

“Overplayed your hand a bit there, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said, voice smooth as he slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

John pursed his lips. “Just following orders.”

Icy blue eyes narrowed a fraction, and John smiled tightly.

“So, uh, you can focus now on that urgent case--blackmail, was it?” John pressed, but Sherlock refused to repeat the lie.

John nodded and looked down. “Yeah, well, good luck with that, then.” He met Sherlock’s eyes again, let the anger seep in for a moment. “See you in a few days.”

He clutched the envelope more tightly and turned, making his way out to the landing and up the steps to his room.

Free from Sherlock’s observant gaze, John tossed the envelope on the bed, not caring that the contents slid out in a jumble over the quilt. He dropped into the chair by the window and fumed, yanking off his shoes and tossing them aside. Picking at the welting along the arm of the chair, he told himself that he was not listening for signs of Sherlock stewing, Sherlock throwing his own shoes across the floor, Sherlock climbing the stairs to apologize. He snorted aloud at that particularly fantastical notion.

“Yeah. Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

Wonderful. He’d devolved to muttering to himself. His stomach rumbled in response, and he regretted not having dinner before making his dramatic exit. But then he heard the sounds he was not listening for, the very deliberate sounds of Sherlock leaving the flat--heavy, quick steps, a door shut soundly--deliberate because Sherlock could move with absolute silence when he wished to, and John knew it. Pushing up from the chair, he walked two paces to the window and peered out to see Sherlock crossing Baker Street, shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his great coat as he strode away. John watched him until the back of his head of black curls disappeared around the corner--he hadn’t spared one glance back.

“Angry, then?” John sniffed. “Good.”

* * *

Once he’d inhaled some dinner, John brought a full pot of tea upstairs with him, as, in between gulps of reheated stew, it had hit him he’d just agreed to take on a fairly serious case--by himself--and would now have to study the materials Dr. Mortimer had left for them.

The night was warm, and he stripped down to only his pants and his pajama bottoms, collapsing down prone across the bed. For a moment, he hung his head over the edge of the mattress, clasping his hands over the back of his neck.

Perhaps he _had_ overplayed it. Perhaps a battle of wills with Sherlock Holmes was not the best way to go about things. There was a real client, a real case, and John’s confidence wavered. He knew he was smart and clever in his own right, but Sherlock . . .

Sherlock was the genius.

The sulky, tantrum-throwing genius, but still.

Exhaling a long breath, John pushed himself up to sitting and dragged the envelope towards him. He would do his best, and then if genius was required, John would find a way to get Sherlock there.

Grabbing a pen from the nightstand, John gathered the contents of the envelope and pulled the first piece of paper into his lap. He continued, diligently reading, marking up the documents, taking notes, until he had finished the last of the tea, stretched his neck until it cracked, and reached the last item--a leather-bound book.

It was small, its dimensions no taller or wider than a postcard. The dark brown leather felt buttery smooth as his fingers slid over it, the weight and shape of the book satisfying in his hand. The gilding along the edges of the pages was mostly worn away, but remnants of gold still glinted up at him in the low light. It had clearly been a well-used, well-loved book, moving supplely as he fanned the pages. A curious item slipped from between the leaves, and he lifted it to look at it more closely. At first glance it resembled a heavy pen, its case engraved and made of silver, but upon closer inspection, John found the barrel twisted to reveal a bit of graphite. John gave a half-smile at what must have been an early version of the mechanical pencil.

Returning his attention to the journal, John intended to start the the beginning, but as he reached for the open book, the words written there in a confident scrawl caught his attention.

_Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth._

Ah, so here, finally, was something about the legend of the hound; John settled in to read. The journal entry told the tale of a horrible brute of a man, Hugo Baskerville, who in 1730 had kidnapped a young woman and held her hostage at Baskerville Hall. One night, she escaped, and John read with fascination and disgust how the man chased after her upon a great black horse with a pack of hunting dogs, his twelve drunken companions following with loaded pistols. The companions, a bit behind their crazed leader, stopped to ask a shepherd if he had seen the young woman.

_And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.'  So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward.  But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle._

John’s eyes remained riveted to the old, yellowing pages as he continued reading. Three of the men came upon a low spot on the moor where there stood two tall stones, and between them was the young woman, dead. The cause of death seemed vague and ridiculous-- _dead of fear and of fatigue_ \--but the description of what else they saw drew all of John’s attention.

_. . . standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.  And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor._

“Jesus Christ,” John swore aloud, his eyes wide. The images playing vividly in his mind, John shuddered--but kept reading. The narrative concluded by saying the curse of the hound had plagued the Baskerville family ever since with a long line of mysterious, bloody deaths, as punishment for Hugo’s actions.

John smiled thinly. Sherlock would have loved this.

Realizing how late it was, John tucked the silver mechanical pencil into the journal to hold his place; he’d read the rest on the train to Dartmoor in the morning. He sorted all the items back into the envelope and then arranged himself under the covers, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the side table.

The moment he closed his eyes, an image of a coal-black hound with glowing red eyes and dripping jowls filled his vision.

He snapped on the light and grabbed for the journal, fingers closing around the silver pencil. In a small blank space near the bottom of the page he scribbled,

_BRING GUN._

He closed the old book, tucking it under his pillow, and turned out the light once more. Flipping to lay on his belly, he buried his cheek against the pillow, one hand instinctively curling around the journal, fingers gripping the comforting worn leather.

* * *

The early autumn sun shone strongly enough that John kept his eyes closed against it, reluctant to waken fully just yet. He rolled away from the window, onto his back, and threw his arm over his eyes with a grunt.

He felt warm, comfortable, and when he sensed fingertips trailing down over his bare chest, it seemed the natural extension of a pleasant dream, especially since their movements were smooth and knowledgeable, making a path along John’s favorite places to be touched.

He hummed, or his dream-self hummed--he wasn’t sure--and the hand became bolder, the palm sliding up firmly, over nipple, over scar, to clasp his neck.

John felt a warm exhalation against his chin, and then soft lips were meeting his own.  The kiss was gentle yet confident, teasing John’s lips apart, and John complied.

He couldn’t remember having kissed anyone this way, not recently, not so easily, with lazy, familiar movements, a gentle prodding of glowing embers that began to spark. Full lips pulled at his, gently at first, and the fingers at his nape slid up to cradle his head, to bring them closer. The kiss became more urgent, and John moved his arm upward, away from covering his eyes to rest above his head. The shift allowed their kiss to deepen, nose along cheek, tongue against tongue.

John was considering nipping at the lips that assailed him when a deep groan rumbled above him, arousing yet alarming. The half-dream fizzled, and John’s eyes flashed open.

Sherlock Holmes hovered over him, his icy eyes intense with want, his thin face leaning in for another kiss.

John bolted up to sitting in an instant, forcing Sherlock back--only Sherlock’s quick reflexes saved him from being knocked off the bed. John’s eyes went wide, his lips burning with shock and sensation.

Sherlock only perched on the edge of the mattress, casually expectant in his deep burgundy dressing gown. “Ah. Still cross with me, then.”

_Cross? Fucking hell. A damn sight more than cross_ , John thought, unconsciously rubbing at his lips. No coherent response occurred to him; his heart was racing and he was still not entirely sure he was awake.

“Fine. Regrettable, but there’s no time for a leisurely apology, Watson--”

_Watson?_

“--and since you’ve apparently decided to express your displeasure with me by shaving off your beautiful moustache, I can see the situation is more dire than I’d imagined.”

John blinked hard.

“Regardless,” Sherlock said, standing abruptly, “our client will be here within the hour.”

Dressing gown swirling around him, Sherlock left, John watching dumbly until the door closed with a click. Heart still thumping violently inside his chest, his fingers tightened unconsciously, and he looked down with surprise at the journal he still clutched in his hand.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Armada for early beta services and Toast for going over the later version with her fine-toothed beta-comb. :)

**_Chapter 2._ ** _In_ _Which Mrs. Hudson makes an Excellent Fry-Up, A Life is Threatened, and John Watson Makes a Deduction_

John’s heart beat frantically, and not just from the strangely familiar kiss he’d just shared with Sherlock Holmes. Something was wrong, spectacularly wrong. When he scanned his surroundings, everything struck the wrong chord. Though the layout was the same, this version of his bedroom was filled with unfamiliar things--a heavy duvet on the bed, covered with a pale blue and ivory damask bedspread, a collection of matching pillows tucked around him. Around the room, every nook seemed filled. An armchair, a writing desk, and a washstand crowded the room, each littered with unfamiliar accoutrements--and wholly unlike the room he had fallen asleep in.

John stood, or tried, having to first unearth himself from the bedding that surrounded him, and immediately knocked a clock and three books off the nightstand. He bent to retrieve them and promptly bumped his arse into an enormous wardrobe along the wall.

Wardrobe? There was no wardrobe in his room when he’d gone to bed, and yet there it stood, made of solid wood, intricately carved, and nearly as tall as the room itself.

His hands seemed to move of their own volition, his brain unhelpfully scrambled, and he opened the wardrobe doors. Suits hung neatly in a row, but not just any suits--old-style three-piece suits in brown, beige, and grey. On the shelf, shirts, starched and ironed into submission; in the drawers, socks, garters, braces, bow ties and cravats, gloves, a pocket watch with matching chain.

John let out a breath and frowned. “What . . . the hell.”

Had he been living with anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, the genius who once filled every container in their flat with a different species of venomous spider to prove a point about a case, John might have thought he was losing his mind. He had learned to expect the unexpected, but this was certainly expanding the definition.

Before he could process any of it further, there was a quick rap at the door. It opened almost immediately and to add to the sense of the ridiculous John was experiencing, Mrs. Hudson walked in, also looking entirely wrong. Her pale hair was long and piled into an elaborate arrangement atop her head, and then there was her dress. Plum-colored and high-collared, it seemed more akin to a period costume than something she’d normally wear, from the long sleeves ending in ruffles to the double row of black buttons down the bodice. The floor-length and full bustle of it were startlingly unlike her, and John continued blinking in an effort to clear his vision.

Mrs. Hudson seemed rather shocked at what she was seeing herself. “Dr. Watson!” she squawked, knitting her brow and turning her back to him, nearly upsetting the items on the tea tray she carried.

Startled, John looked around a moment before noting his bare chest. “Oh! Erm,” John answered intelligently. He grabbed the nearest garment, a sort of off-white undershirt, and pulled it on. He coughed. “Ah. Good morning.”

She turned toward him again with a cautious eye, but then moved forward with purpose, setting down the fully-laden tray--complete with a vase filled with gardenias and pink roses--on top of the writing desk near the window, and set about making him a cup of tea.

“Bit of a late start today, Dr. Watson?” she asked with a hint of reproach.

He nodded, though she wasn’t looking at him, and he reached into the wardrobe for a deep blue dressing gown, arranging the silky fabric over himself and tying the belt of it with a firm tug.

“And with a client arriving soon,” she tutted, removing the strainer from his tea cup.

Right. A client. Sherlock had mentioned that as well. After the kissing.

She stirred a silver spoon in his tea and watched him from the corner of her eye. “Mr. Holmes shouldn’t monopolize your time so.”

Despite his muddled state, John still caught the innuendo in her tone. And since when did she call Sherlock ‘Mr. Holmes’? He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued on.

“Although he does have some amends to make after yesterday. And I can see you’ve not forgiven him yet as he was having a proper sulk when I brought up his tea. I thought you might rather breakfast up here today, considering. Of course, I suspect he’s mourning the loss of your lovely moustache.”

Finished with the tea preparation, she looked up at him with a conspiratorial smile. “I think you look younger without it, if you don’t mind my saying so, Doctor.”

John fell back on his ingrained good manners and simply said, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

With a nod, she left the room, shutting the door to his room behind her.

* * *

Having determined that he was indeed awake and conscious, only one other explanation presented itself. It simply had to be an experiment. An elaborate, ridiculous experiment. Though it seemed farfetched, it wouldn’t be beyond Sherlock’s ability or temperament to do such a thing, but the commitment involved made John marvel. Clearly his tea last night had been drugged somehow, and while he was out cold, Sherlock had arranged the room, had put Mrs. Hudson up to participating in the ruse, had--

Decided to wake John with kisses.

John frowned. That part warred with his interpretation, so he amended it to fit. It hadn’t been a serious kiss, of course. It had been part of the plan to disorient him.

And it had worked.

Nearly upsetting a riotous fern atop the plant stand beside the writing table, John sank into the plush desk chair, intending to work out the problem. However, the smell of a full breakfast assailed him, and he looked down to see fried eggs, beans, and black pudding before him, along with toast and tea. The little pots arranged around the plate revealed deep red jam and pale butter, and, the enticing smells seducing him completely, he got to the business of eating, certain he would need sustenance to face whatever Sherlock had planned next.

Munching on the last bite of what was perhaps the best toast he had ever had in his life, he decided. He’d play along in whatever scheme this was. Sherlock seemed determined to throw him, and so John decided not to be thrown. He’d find a way to outlast the great Sherlock Holmes, and enjoy himself in the process.

He finished his tea and went over to the wardrobe, determined. He skipped the cumbersome sock garters but accepted the need for braces when he discovered the trousers had no belt loops. He chose an ascot over the nightmare of tying a traditional bow tie, fought a bit with the placement of the stiff collar around the neck of the shirt, fiddled with getting the watch chain and fob attached, but in the end, as he looked at himself in the full-length standing mirror beside the wardrobe, he felt he had pulled off the look of a Victorian gentleman surprisingly well.

At least, he thought it was Victorian. History had never been his strongest subject, especially not the history of fashion, and it was just as likely he was dressed as Mr. Darcy for all he knew, but there wasn’t time to fuss over it, as the watch attached to his waistcoat clearly declared it was nearly nine and the so-called client would be arriving soon.

Using the silver brush on the washstand, John swept his hair back so that it lay in smooth, golden waves. Thinking he might require the tale of the hound, he retrieved the little journal from the mountainous bed and, tucking it into the breast pocket of his frock coat, went downstairs to see what Sherlock had in store for him next.

* * *

His confident gait faltering, John came to a halt in the sitting room and goggled. The skeleton of it was still the 221b he knew, but on the surface, everything was different. It was as though he had been transported into the past--no computers, no television, no leather and steel modernist armchair. Instead, the entire contents of the flat seemed positively antique. He noted some familiar items here and there--the skull on the mantelpiece, the violin on a table near the window, the little Persian slipper on a shelf in the corner--but, overall, the illusion was complete.

John had little time to contemplate the surreal effect, however, as Sherlock was walking in with two gentlemen at his side, the three of them dressed head to toe in what he assumed was period-accurate attire.

“Ah, Watson. May I introduce Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. He was as slim and elegant as John had ever seen him, black suit perfectly tailored, his usually unruly curls now tamed so they ran in smooth waves back and away from his face, icy blue eyes glittering with the excitement of a new case. But the warm smile he directed at John, seemingly genuine despite the ruse, was what made John pause. “Gentlemen, my associate, Dr. John Watson.”

Turning to face the visitors, John scrutinized what Sherlock had just said. Baskerville? Mortimer? This could only mean that yesterday’s meeting with Louise Mortimer had been part of the set up; whatever the purpose behind this experiment, Sherlock really was going full bore.

Though it seemed a bit much, it wasn’t the worst situation Sherlock had ever tossed him into. John acting as though nothing were amiss the day before in accepting Louise Mortimer’s case on his own seemed to have rattled Sherlock enough to concoct this alternative scenario--was he hoping John would give a different answer this time?  Give in to Sherlock and beg him to come along on the case? John nearly scoffed out loud. _Not bloody likely._ Vowing to wrangle the details out of Sherlock as soon as they were alone again, John turned his attention to their “clients.”

Baskerville was young, with bright eyes and a neat, sandy brown mustache. His athletic build and quick smile reminded John of rugby mates he’d known in school. Dr. Mortimer was also fairly young but somewhat nervous, with brown curly hair and elaborate sideburns and an anxious way about him. John definitely preferred the Dr. Mortimer he had met the day before, and he wondered if that was part of Sherlock’s game. Perhaps Sherlock thought John had only agreed to help Louise (and defy Sherlock) because she was an attractive woman?

_Ridiculous_. John reminded himself to commit to this bizarre Victorian version of the case and  stepped forward. “Good morning.” It occurred to him that he had no idea if he should bow or offer his hand, and ended up giving a sort of dip of his chin. He needn’t have worried though, as Sherlock was already shepherding them into seats around the sitting room. John stood at one end of the fireplace and tried to affect a neutral, pleasant air, while Sherlock stood at the other end, his attention focused on their guests.

“Please, gentlemen. If the situation is as you have previously indicated, we haven’t time to waste.”

Sir Henry gave a nervous laugh. “Mr. Holmes, I hope it’s not as dire as all that! Someone’s trying to put me off, is all.” His confidence wavered, though, and he looked to Sherlock earnestly. “Do you really think there’s something to this? That a monster haunts my family?”

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock waved a hand towards the anxious Mortimer. “Dr. Mortimer claims he has evidence your father’s death was brought on by this ‘gigantic hound’--if not by an actual animal, then by the legend of it, which contributed to his poor health and ultimate death. If the creature is purely fictional, then someone is going to great lengths to breathe life into it in order to persecute your family, Sir Henry. Your father, Sir Charles, is dead; your uncle, Roger, presumed dead in South America; you are the only Baskerville left.”

Baskerville’s eyes widened, and he sat up straighter in his chair. Mortimer looked Henry over and then asked, “May I relate the events of this morning, sir?”

“Please do, Doctor,” he answered with a sigh, reclining in his chair once more and passing a hand over his brow. “This is all most strange.”

Mortimer produced a small note from his coat pocket and handed it up to Sherlock, who took it up carefully by its edges. Moving closer to John so he might see, Sherlock unfolded the note and held it out flat between them.

Words formed from bits of cut and pasted newspaper text declared:

_As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor._

Only the word “moor” was handwritten, the print in messy block letters.

“Who would have known at which hotel you chose to stay last night?” Sherlock demanded.

“No one--we made the decision on impulse, at the very last moment,” Mortimer said, eyes wide with anxiety at the thought he might have made some misstep.

Turning his head abruptly to John, Sherlock asked, “What do you think, Watson?”

Surprised to be consulted, John said the first thing that came to mind. “I think someone’s being overly dramatic to make a point,” he said, eyebrows rising in a look of gentle criticism.

Frowning, Sherlock stood away again. “Yes, well, let’s assess the facts before theorizing, shall we?” He held the note up to his face, inspecting it from various angles. “My dear Watson, if you’ll be so kind as to fetch yesterday’s _Times_ , I think we shall learn a great deal about our note-writer.”

A glance over to the area where they normally stowed their newspapers in 221b confirmed that at least that had not changed, and John walked over to get the one Sherlock required, only stopping a moment to blink at the old-fashioned typesetting, the unfamiliar headlines. Before he could investigate it further, Sherlock took the paper from his hands and spoke.

“You’ll see, gentlemen, the article on the inside page regarding free trade contains all the same words as your note here, except for ‘moor’. Someone has, quite hastily, cut out the words from yesterday’s _Times_ with short-bladed scissors, affixed them messily to this paper with gum, and written in the word ‘moor’ because they hadn’t the time to find it printed. Hurry? Carelessness? Or a fear of being interrupted and discovered?”

“Oh, but this is guesswork, surely,” Baskerville objected amiably, and John smiled, shaking his head a little. When he looked over, Sherlock was standing straighter, his chest pressed outward as he took a breath to begin.

“Balance of probability,” Sherlock corrected. “Observe that in addressing the note the pen has spluttered twice over a single word, run dry three times; personal pen and ink would hardly be in such a state, but a hotel set is rarely in any other condition. This note was therefore written in a local hotel and sent very early this morning. Note also, the handwriting is stilted and somewhat childish, but as the _Times_ is read almost exclusively by the educated, it follows that the person who wrote this wished to conceal their identity--most likely, they are known to you and have been watching your movements in London this entire time. They have, perhaps, even followed you here.”

As both Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer gasped in amazement, John couldn’t help smiling, even beaming when Sherlock looked over to him surreptitiously for acknowledgement.

“Brilliant!” he said.

“Elementary,” said Sherlock, turning back to their guests, but John had caught the twinkle of delight in his eyes at John’s praise. It was the first wholly familiar moment between them this morning, and John felt some sense of ease return to him.

“But no one has followed us,” Dr. Mortimer insisted, clearly aghast Sherlock would suggest such a situation would go unnoticed by him.

“We shall soon see. I suggest you and Sir Henry return to Dartmoor immediately. Dangerous events are in the making, and you’ll need someone to attend to your safety, Sir Henry; keep a trusted person with you at all times. Watson will follow on the next train.”

“Won’t you be coming, Mr. Holmes?” Baskerville asked, expressing John’s own question.

“I’m afraid other matters require my presence in London at the time being,” Sherlock said, moving towards the front door, clearly ready for the men to be on their way.

_Ah_ , thought John. _Here it is_. All this just to see if John would repeat his “mistake” of thinking he could tackle a case on his own. John winked at Sherlock behind the men’s backs, but Sherlock seemed not to notice.

“I was rather hoping you’d attend to the matter yourself, Mr. Holmes,” Mortimer dared to say.

Sherlock stopped short, his hand pausing on the knob of the door, and he fixed Mortimer with a steely blue gaze. “If my friend would undertake it, there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I.”

It was then that Sherlock’s eyes finally met John’s own, and the sincerity John saw there, had heard in Sherlock’s voice, threw him into stunned silence. Yesterday, the compliment had been a sham--now, in this ridiculous context, John was certain that the words were truly meant.

Baskerville broke the tension, clapping Mortimer on the back with a laugh. “Well, I can’t have better company, then! How about it, Dr. Watson?” he asked, grinning over to John.

“Erm,” John stalled, forgetting nearly everything, unable to gather his thoughts until Sherlock released his gaze and looked away. “I, ah.” He blinked at Baskerville. “I’d be honored.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Sherlock said, pulling open the door. “Take care to stay in the company of others until Watson arrives, Sir Henry, for your own sake, and discuss these events with no one.”

The men agreed and hurried out down the steps. Sherlock closed the door behind them.

Inhaling deeply, John wasted no time in taking advantage of their privacy to ask his most pressing question. “Just what in _hell_ is going on here?”

Sherlock sprinted towards him, and for a moment John thought he might be tackled, but Sherlock breezed past to the windows overlooking the street. He stilled, and moved the curtain just a fraction to peek outside.

“It’s just as I suspected.”

“What is?”

Ignoring him completely, Sherlock ran for the door.

“Sherlock! _Stop!_ ” John commanded. Surprisingly, Sherlock complied, turning to face John. His entire demeanor changed in an instant as he stood close and looked John directly in the eyes, his gaze filled with startling affection.

John swallowed. “I mean--” He glanced down at his shoes and looked up. “--good show and all, but don’t you think we’ve had enough of this?”

Without hesitation, Sherlock brought his hand up to John’s face, cupping his jaw in a gesture of utter tenderness that had John leaning in to the touch.

“I quite agree, my dear Watson,” Sherlock answered, and John felt he could get used to being called by his last name if it were regularly accompanied by the endearment--that, and the look of devotion currently in Sherlock’s blue-silver eyes.

“But there isn’t time for a proper reconciliation,” Sherlock explained, dropping his hand away. He reached over for a coat and scarf, thrusting them against John’s chest. “The game’s afoot, and we haven’t a moment to spare!”

With that, Sherlock ran off, seemingly gliding down the stairs. John shook his head but followed, pulling on his coat and scarf as he trailed behind the madman. He barrelled through the open front, barely managing to slam it shut behind him, and turned towards the street.

What met his eyes simply was not possible.

Horse-drawn carriages and hansom cabs. Dozens of people who looked like they’d sprung forth from a Dickens novel.

_Cobblestones_.

John exhaled, a tremulous whisper escaping him. “ _Bloody hell_.”

No matter how elaborate the experiment, there was no way on earth Sherlock had _repaved London_ overnight.

And John realized the question was now not only _what_ was going on, but _when_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3.** In Which Adrenaline is Released, Mrs. Hudson has Wretched Timing, and a Watson is Dispatched._

 

Before John had a moment to contemplate further, Sherlock--if it was Sherlock--was hustling him along, slipping his arm into the crook of John’s elbow.

“Step lively, Watson. We don’t want to lose sight of them,” Sherlock said, looking ahead in the direction of Oxford Street.

“Who?” John asked lamely, head fuzzy and heart racing.

Sherlock jutted his chin. “Our clients, obviously.”

Looking up the street, John saw Baskerville and Mortimer walking about two hundred feet ahead of them. “Obviously,” John mumbled, having no idea nor interest in why they were following the two men. His eyes were drawn to everything else around him, darting from the muddy street busy with horse-drawn traffic to a shop window filled with all manner of men’s hats, to the shadowed figures of grimy-looking adolescents and children who hung about the alley. One of them tipped his brown newsboy cap in their direction, and John’s brow knit further in bewilderment.

What was happening? Who was this man beside him who looked like Sherlock, deduced and preened like Sherlock, and yet was somehow not like Sherlock at all--appreciative, affectionate, even--and who had not yet noticed that John was not in his right place, his right time?

“There, Watson, do you see?” Sherlock asked, interrupting John’s thoughts and gripping John’s upper arm. John’s eyes snapped to the hansom cab Sherlock was looking towards. The cab moved slowly along the faster traffic of the road, trailing a moderate distance behind where Baskerville and Mortimer walked.

“You were right,” John said, smiling a bit despite the strangeness all around him.

“Let’s see if we can’t get a look at our devil.” Excitement trilled through his voice, and John felt the familiar tug of adventure.

Their clients had paused, waiting to cross the busy street, and the cab stopped as well, lingering a short way from the intersection. Sherlock increased his pace, hurrying towards the cab, but as John looked over to it, a face appeared at its small window.

A man with shrewd eyes and a full, dark beard peered back at them, and then disappeared into the darkness once more.

“He’s spotted us,” John said.

Sherlock took off with a barked order of “Hurry, Watson!” just as the cab lurched into movement and pulled away from the curb.

Familiar with this, at least, John broke into a run behind Sherlock, who was now chasing the rapidly accelerating cab like a madman. Sherlock ran onto the street, another cab nearly colliding into him, its driver having to pull back on the reins hard to avoid him.

“Sorry,” John hollered as he sped past, a few paces behind Sherlock. Blood pumped vigorously through his veins as he ran and dodged, adrenaline narrowing his focus to Sherlock and the cab that eluded them.

The hansom was nowhere in sight, but Sherlock continued at full speed, and when he darted suddenly to the left into an alleyway, John followed.

“Did you see him turn?” John hollered as he ran.

But Sherlock either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him, so John gave up trying to suss it out and simply stayed a few steps behind as Sherlock led them down the alley and into the next street. John skidded and wobbled as they dodged pedestrians, his feet unused to the mud and the cobbles as Sherlock nearly sailed through the sea of humans and horses. Turning sharply, Sherlock ran up to the side of a cab that had stopped at the curb. John halted behind Sherlock, who was now climbing up to accost the driver.

“Your fare, just now! Where did you leave him?” Sherlock demanded, eyes hard as steel.

The moustachioed driver frowned. “None of my business where my fares go, sir--and, pardon my sayin’, not yours either.”

“Now, listen, my good fellow, you’ve fallen into a serious predicament here, and the facts are your only way out of it. Your fare, a man with a dark beard, had you follow two men down Baker Street. Why?”

Seeing that Sherlock already knew the situation, the cabman reconsidered his stance on his fare’s privacy. “Didn’t say why. Only said he was a detective.”

“Oh? And did this detective tell you his name?”

“That he did,” said the cabman. “Said his name was Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s eyes went wide, and even Sherlock stayed silent a moment with shock--until a burst of laughter escaped him.

“Ah,” said Sherlock when he’d recovered. “And I presume you left him at Waterloo station.”

The cabman nodded, and Sherlock shook his head. “Can you describe him?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes. Quiet. Thin chap. Maybe thirty years of age. Shorter than you.”

“Anything else?”

The cabman shook his head, and Sherlock frowned down to John. “It will do, for a start.” He handed over a large coin to the cabman, and stepped down from the cab. “Good day!”

“Thank you, sir!” the man answered, and Sherlock turned, striding away.

John hustled to catch up.

“A cunning, bold scoundrel, Watson.”

“With a sense of humor to boot,” John added.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, a distant look coming over his features. John knew that look well enough--the one that meant Sherlock needed to stew over an idea. If this was, indeed, his Sherlock, the next step would be for him to flop on the sofa at Baker Street and not speak to John for hours, or days, so when John felt Sherlock slide his hand over his elbow, John missed a step, his eyes focusing on their linked arms as they walked.

“I think it best we set the matter aside for now, Watson. There’s nothing to be gained in speculation without facts. Since you’ve nearly three hours until your train, I suggest we pass the time dining at The Marion.”

Sherlock’s eyes focused on the street ahead of them, so he did not seem to notice John’s look of shock and confusion.

Physically affectionate, in public, no less? Suggesting they take time off from the case? To _eat_?

This was not his Sherlock.

Rendered fairly speechless by this revelation, John kept quiet, following this Sherlock’s lead.

 _Can I even call him Sherlock?_ He glanced at the man who walked beside him, whose arm was linked with his own. Though his physical characteristics seemed identical to his Sherlock, this one’s mannerisms, his speech--his regard!--were enough unlike his Sherlock that John began to catalog their differences. In his mind, he made a decision to start calling this one “Holmes,” just as he was being called “Watson.”

As he and Holmes made their way southward through their neighborhood, John remained mostly silent, taking in as many details as he could--the muddy cobbles, the kid selling large, fat newspapers printed in black ink only, the smell of damp earth and a sewage system that clearly was not yet fully-developed.

Holmes stopped to buy a paper (five pence!), and John gleaned the date.

_1889._

Yeah. All right.

So.

Victorian England.

With a Sherlock Holmes who was not exactly his Sherlock Holmes.

As a John Watson who was not exactly him.

The fear he’d been holding at bay flickered in that moment, trying to take hold of him. _How did I come here? How the bloody hell do I get back home?_

It would take Sherlock Holmes himself to figure it out; John hardly knew what to do. Trust this Sherlock? Tell him . . . tell him what? That somehow John had traveled back in time overnight? That he had fallen asleep in the twenty-first century and, incredibly, had woken up in the nineteenth? The truth was not to be believed, yet only the truth might entice Holmes to help John. They reached the restaurant, and even as they settled into the sumptuously upholstered chairs at a corner table, John still had not decided.

Holmes was quiet, speaking only to order his meal, and though he seemed content to remain silent, John knew better. No matter the circumstances, a Holmes’ gears were always turning.

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” John ventured. “I’m not myself today.” He glanced up to gauge Holmes’ reaction, but the man replied smoothly.

“It has been a rather singular morning. And the business is bloody, hound or no hound.”

John only nodded and looked down. He’d half-hoped Holmes would have determined he was a fraud, a false Watson. Unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed, John was glad to have the distraction of their dishes being served.

Course after course appeared, and at each moment when John thought he might begin the conversation anew, the waiter returned, or a glance at Holmes showed he was deep in thought, his unfocused gaze directed over John’s shoulder and out the window. John took the free time to look over his companion--the icy eyes, the long fingers, the hair that seemed ready to fight against its forced smoothness and spring into curls at any moment. The physical resemblance to Sherlock was nearly complete, from the bow-shaped lips to the easy way he sat, half-reclined, his long legs stretched straight in front of him and crossed at the ankles.

John wondered how much he must resemble the Watson that belonged with this Holmes, given that both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson had accepted him without comment, other than the lack of a moustache.

Subconsciously he rubbed his fingers over his upper lip, wondering what else separated him from Holmes’ Watson. A moustache, yes, but also, apparently, a willingness to be kissed by Holmes. His thoughts drifting back to how Holmes had woken him only a few hours ago, John found himself imagining his own Sherlock hovering over him, leaning in, sliding his long fingers over John’s skin.

“All right, Watson?” Holmes asked, and John nearly dropped his forkful of curried fish. “You seem a bit touched.”

John attempted to control his face whilst assessing Holmes’, seeing the hint of glee in those silver-blue eyes. Feeling the heat pinkening his cheeks, John knit his brow.

“It’s nothing. Eat your potatoes,” he replied, hoping Watson was as sassy and nagging to his Holmes as John was to Sherlock. Apparently it was so, as Holmes didn’t even raise an eyebrow and proceeded to spear a chunk of roasted potato with his fork. As John watched, Holmes lifted the fork to his mouth, making a show of pulling the potato off the tines with his lips and chewing deliberately, his eyes glittering back at John throughout.

 _Yeah_ , John decided. _This one is just as much trouble as the other one_. More so, somehow, if the seductive look Holmes was sending across the table was any indication. Being . . . partners, or whatever, with Sherlock was challenging enough. And yet, these two had apparently added the dimension of a romantic, sexual relationship.

John could hardly imagine such a thing. Certainly, he was close to Sherlock. Had endured all manner of danger and abandonment and rudeness and forgiven him everything out of friendship, out of devotion, out of . . .

Love.

John could admit that much to himself. He’d always been an all or nothing sort when it came to friendships, relationships, and Sherlock was definitely in the “all” category. There was no denying the man held his heart in his hands. But a sexual relationship! That was a line they hadn’t crossed, not truly. The incident after the pool didn’t count, both of them keyed up on adrenaline, interrupted by Mrs. Hudson before anything (much) had really happened anyway.

John pulled his gaze away from Holmes, clearing his throat and reaching for his drink. This was no time for reminiscing; he needed to find a way back to the present-- _his_ present--and his Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure yet if reading this madman in was going to help him get back to his own.

His face composed once more, John set down his glass and looked up. “So, tell me, Holmes. What do you do when you can’t make sense of what you observe?”

Holmes waved a lazy hand at him. “You know my methods, Watson.”

John nodded. “Gather more data, then.”

“Precisely.”

* * *

When John stepped into the flat, he found his trunk in the sitting room, already packed for the journey to Baskerville Hall. Holmes must have sent word to Mrs. Hudson, and John was doubly grateful not to have to discern on his own what attire would be expected at a country manor in the late 19th century.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said as she fluttered about, tucking something wrapped in paper into his gripsack and setting it atop the trunk.

“Oh, nonsense. There’s a little something for the train, Doctor,” she said, patting the gripsack, and then she was hustling out their door, saying over her shoulder as she went, “The cab will be here soon, gentlemen!”

John sent his thanks down the stairs behind her, and when he turned back into the room, Holmes was standing near the tall window, his back to John as he peered out onto Baker Street below. He’d seen that pensive pose more than once, and he took a few steps towards Holmes, stopping just behind him.

“What is it?” he asked, voice soft.

“The rascal knew our number, knew Baskerville had consulted us, knew enough to leave his audacious message with the cabman. He’s a cunning foe, and so far he has bested us.”

John smiled and huffed out a dismissive breath. “We’ve beaten smarter ones.”

Turning slowly to face John, Holmes let a sad smile curl his lips. “That’s true enough, Watson.” His hand reached out, smoothing the ascot at John’s throat, fingers sliding down to rest at the top edge of his waistcoat. Holmes’ low voice softened and rumbled, and John felt the sound wrap around him, pulling him in as Holmes continued. “But it’s an ugly business, and I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.”

Unused to such openly expressed regard, John looked up sharply, failing to keep the astonishment from his features. Holmes’ gaze held his, and John felt himself drawn forward, his own eyes focused on Holmes’ own, so much like Sherlock’s, down to the spot of brown in his iris amid the ocean of glacier blue and sea green. John swallowed, and his voice came rougher than he expected. “You could come with me.”

The sad smile widened, and for a moment John thought Holmes would kiss him again, and he found himself leaning in, his gaze riveted to the pink, full lips that seemed to reach eagerly for his own.

“Ooh-ooh,” called Mrs. Hudson from the bottom of the stairs, breaking the mood, and John shook his head.

 _Damn that woman’s timing_ , he thought. _In either era_.

Holmes dropped his hand and straightened his spine, effectively placing distance between them, and John cleared his throat.

“I wish you better luck in Dartmoor. Keep me informed,” Holmes said, voice as stiff as his posture, and John wondered what had happened. Had he mis-stepped? Had Holmes expected some reaction he’d failed to produce?

If John had to guess, Holmes was offended John hadn’t kissed him; perhaps he’d expected John to forgive him for whatever argument they’d apparently had, the one Holmes had referenced that morning. Not having received it, Holmes now resorted to the very Sherlockian posture of disdainful pouting.

Yeah. That would make sense. John smiled thinly at the thought that sulking was inherent to all Sherlocks, and looked into Holmes’ bright eyes. Unsure of whether he wished to genuinely reassure Holmes or to just maintain the fiction of being Watson, John rushed forward, stepping up to capture Holmes’ lips with his own for one flashing moment.

“It’s fine,” John said. He stepped away to grasp the handles of the gripsack. When he reached the doorway he turned back to face Holmes. “It’s all fine.”

He left Holmes standing by the window, one enigmatic eyebrow raised and the color high across his cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4. In Which All This Has Happened Before, The Butler Did Everything, and Creepy Moor is Creepy._

 

John settled himself in his seat without a moment to spare--the train began to move immediately, as though it had been waiting on him to make its departure. Attempting not to stand out as an anachronism, John only nodded at the only other passenger in the compartment, a portly, brown-skinned older gentleman with an impressive handlebar moustache. Rubbing at his own upper lip again, John thought about the contradictory yet accurate phrasing of “acting natural”, and he turned his gaze to the view outside the window.

From his vantage point, London sprawled out all around him, the city darker and dingier than in his day, pollution hovering in a brown-grey cloud above it. He leaned back, his mind whirring as he watched the train leave London behind. The scenery transformed into the green countryside sooner than he expected, another reminder that he was no longer in the England that he knew. There had to be a way out of this pickle he was in, but he was damned if he knew what it was. As both Sherlock and Holmes would advise, he needed more data, but the only resource he had was back in London.

_Except_.

The sudden memory causing him to sit up with more violence than was appreciated by his traveling companion, John thrust his hands into the various pockets of his frock coat, scrabbling until his fingers closed around the object of his search--the journal. It contained the legend of the Baskerville curse; what else might it have between its worn leather covers?

He flipped to the first page.

_The reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department_

His breath stalling in his throat, John stared at the name-- _his_ name--written on the flyleaf. His wide eyes moved to the next page.

_In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out._

It simply wasn’t possible.

_"Poor devil!" Stamford said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"_

_"Looking for lodgings." I answered._

_"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me."_

_"And who was the first?" I asked._

Not. Possible.

And yet here it was, written in ink in the book before him.

_As Holmes spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots._

_“There is nothing new under the sun,” said Holmes. “It has all been done before."_

“Bloody hell,” John muttered, earning a look of reproach from his compartment-mate, but he hardly noticed, too occupied with trying to comprehend what he was reading. A Watson, meeting a Holmes, living and working with a Holmes, in almost the exact way that John had with Sherlock--but over a hundred years before. Was this the past he was trapped in, then? Or some alternate dimension of time, a different reality in which they were still destined to meet? And how the hell did he end up here?

* * *

Consumed with the need to know the answers to these questions, John spent the rest of his journey poring over the pages of the journal. He read more of his--no, Watson’s--first case with Holmes, and then the many adventures they’d been on, some of them so familiar it was as though John were reading a memoir of his own life with Sherlock. By the time the train arrived in Grimpen, he had reached the last entry, his eyes skimming over the tale of the hound that he’d read the night before--back when he was in his own bed, his own place and time. Had that only been hours ago? He felt like he’d led another lifetime in the interim.

The last written page described Holmes and Watson’s plan to meet with Baskerville and Mortimer the next morning; the remainder of the journal was blank, almost as though it expected John to put pen to paper and carry on what his--ancestor? predecessor?--had begun.

The train was slowing, signalling their arrival at the station, and his compartment-mate was folding away his newspaper and rising to gather his things. John reluctantly closed the journal and tucked it back into the breast pocket of his coat, standing and wondering what would happen now that he’d managed to get himself separated from the one person who might believe him.

Once on the platform, John discovered his trunk already unloaded. Beside it stood a short and composed-looking dark-skinned man wearing a black suit,  black tie, and white gloves. As John came towards him, the man dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Hello,” John said, giving a cautious grin. The man seemed only a bit older than John, his closely-cropped hair an even mixture of black and white.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. Sir Henry sent me,” the man answered, his voice soft but clear.

“Oh, wonderful,” John said, and he reached out his hand. “Please call me John.”

The older man looked up at him with careful surprise.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, and John could tell from the man’s tone of voice that he would do no such thing.

“And your name?”

“Barrymore, sir.”

“Right. Good,” John said, dropping his hand, and looking all around for a distraction to dispel the awkwardness. John had no idea what this man’s position might be--driver? footman?--and only knew that he was giving himself away as an outsider with every action.

Luckily, Barrymore took up the slack, efficiently instructing the porter where to take the trunk and guiding John to the waiting carriage. It was of open design, with four wheels and a matched pair of black mares to pull it, and John climbed into the back as the trunk was secured.

Barrymore hopped, quick and elegant, into the seat next to the driver--a hunched old man who looked John over with suspicion and then grunted--and they were off.

The sun hung low in the sky, and the amber light shone weakly along their path as the carriage bumped its way down the moor. The terrain around them seemed both beautiful and desolate, the scrubby heather dotted with rocky outcroppings that took on strange shapes in the dying light. Feeling a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the weather, John was glad when they passed through an iron gate, and yew trees began to line the road, signalling that they were nearing the hall.

However, once the great house came into view, it was no comfort. The building was huge, grey, and imposing, silhouetted against the sunset like a dark, lurking mass. The bleakness took on a tinge of the gothic when John saw the mostly-leafless vines of ivy clawing up the edges of the hall like black, skeletal fingers.

"Fantastic.” John hoped Barrymore hadn’t perceived his sarcasm, but knowing what little he did of the man so far, it was unlikely.

* * *

Henry had greeted John at the door and introduced him to Mrs. Barrymore, the housekeeper, a nervous-looking, roundly-shaped woman who held her hands in front of herself as though she feared they might wring themselves if she let them. She was visibly relieved to see her husband, her light brown face brightening once he was at her side. Henry seemed oblivious to his servants’ moods, focused more on sending off Mortimer--who had stayed with him, as Holmes instructed, until John’s arrival--and welcoming John. Henry insisted on the full tour before dinner, and kept up a lively chatter as they wandered through the absolutely dismal place. Though Baskerville Hall may once have been grand, Henry’s father had allowed the majority of the rooms to fall into disuse, only requiring a very small portion of the house for himself. The abandoned sections reminded John of ghost stories, all tall gray walls with portraits that seemed to watch him as he walked through.

“It’s a bit . . . grim,” John said, unable to refrain from commenting on the moor in general and the manor in particular.

With a great exhalation of relief, Henry nodded. “Yes, Dr. Watson, I quite agree! It’s no wonder my father was so skittish, surrounded by all this. One could go quite mad here.”

John glanced over at his host, noting his furrowed brow and pursed lips. “And how long have you been here at Baskerville Hall?”

“Only a few days before Mortimer and I resolved to see you and Mr. Holmes,” he answered. “It was the news of Selden’s escape that did it.”

“I’m sorry?” John said, hoping the news wasn’t something he should already know.

His heart sank as Henry raised a dubious eyebrow at him. “The Notting Hill murderer! Escaped from Princetown not one week ago! Surely it made the London papers.”

“Certainly! Forgive me--I thought you said ‘seldom’,” John covered lamely. Henry gave him an odd look but soon shook it off and continued.

“Ah. Well, that bit of news, along with my father’s death, this business with the hound . . . it’s enough to make me raze that yew alley and plant lamp posts instead, perhaps find a wife who can brighten up this miserable tomb.”

_Good luck with that_ , thought John, pitying the future Mrs. Baskerville to be tasked with such a job. Nodding vaguely and hoping to avoid any more conversational missteps, John followed fairly silently the rest of the way.

The tour complete, Henry returned to the main hall, finally leading John up to his room, where he was inordinately relieved to see that someone had laid out a complete outfit for him. Certainly, it had been Barrymore. The full evening attire of white tie and black suit (including a jacket with tails, no less) reminded John of his military dress uniform, only with seventeen more accessories involved. He descended the stairs to find Barrymore waiting with cocktails, and proceeded to spend the next two and half hours experiencing “dinner”--a multi-course affair nearly obscene in its variety and amount from soup to nuts.  By the time he bade his host goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room, John was exhausted.

Finally, in a simple pair of sleep trousers and a nightshirt, he collapsed into the chair at the writing desk.

Unable to settle his thoughts, he reached for the journal. After fiddling with the pen and ink set on the desk for fifteen unproductive minutes, he rummaged through the room for a pencil. Though Mrs. Hudson had been most thoughtful in the packing of his trunk--indeed, he found a revolver neatly wrapped in a tea towel--he could not locate the little silver pencil. He could have sworn he’d tucked it inside the journal back at 221b, but it was nowhere to be found.  And though he had no doubt he could summon Barrymore with the bell pull near the bed and have a pencil in no time, the idea of asking Barrymore for yet one more thing this evening was abhorrent, as the man and his wife clearly did the work of five people between them already.

In a stroke of luck he found a plain wooden pencil in the nightstand near the bed, and, thus armed, he sat down again to write, though he knew not what or for whom until the words began to tumble from him.

_What I know:_

_\--It is 1889._

_\--I’m in England. Dartmoor._

_\--I’m on a case._

_\--For Sherlock Holmes._

_\--Holmes is not my Sherlock but he’s very similar._

_\--Both are exceedingly clever, both consulting detectives, both show-offs._

_\--Holmes seems older than you. Kinder._

_\--Holmes is more appreciative. Affectionate, even._

_\--You don’t worry so much (at all, really) about my need to eat or sleep._

_\--You don’t tell me “I want you back home safe.”_

_\--Or link arms with me in the street._

_\--Or kiss me._

_So. Yeah. That’s different._

_Too different. I’m sitting around having three-hour dinners and chatting about the countryside when what I should do is go right back to London, back to Holmes, and just tell him what’s happened. He’s bound to figure it out soon; if he’s truly anything like you, he’s already sensed that something is more than a little off. But he’s also the most likely person to find a way out of this mess. I should have told him, first thing. But I._

_I thought he was you._

_Just for a while._

_I thought it was some kind of elaborate experiment, because, honestly, what else was I supposed to think? Certainly time travel was not the first conclusion I drew._

_But now I’m stuck here, and I’m not even in London--I’m out on the bloody moor chasing some phantom dog and trying to solve two mysteries on my own._

_Which I know, is what I threatened to do last night, back at home, in the present. And I meant it. I fully intended to go on the morning train and take my best shot._

_Here’s the thing._

_I don’t actually_ want _to solve puzzles without_ you _._

Allowing himself a moment of melancholy, John underlined the last word and stared at it until he felt his eyes burn. He sniffed and dropped the pencil, shutting the book with a thwap, and blinked.

Looking to shake the despair that he felt creeping over him, he stood and walked over to the window, drawing away the curtain to gaze outside. The moon was high and full, casting its blue light over the landscape. The window faced the front of the hall, the wide grassy space below lying flat before the entrance like a dewy carpet. Beyond the lawn lay the alley of yew trees, flanked on each side by the rolling moor, its curves broken here and there by constellations of rock. It was deathly silent, the quiet night so unlike the constant hum and clatter of London that he found himself remembering nights in the desert, the rare moment of calm when he could turn his gaze upward and see a million stars glittering in the inky night. He looked out along the eerie moor and was surprised to find himself missing Afghanistan, if only because its silence was familiar, known.

A sound pierced the quiet in that moment, pulling John back into the present--or his current present--once more. He had initially thought it was imagined, his fears getting the better of him in his moment of loneliness, but then the sound came again, a wretched, amplified wailing.

Without hesitation, John grabbed a candle and the revolver. Barefoot and silent, he crept over to the door to his room and opened it a crack. Peering into the hallway, he saw Henry doing the same across the way.

“You heard it too?” Henry asked in a raised whisper, and John refrained from voicing the very Holmesian reply that dangled on his tongue. _Obviously_. Instead, he nodded, and stepped out into the hall, indicating that Henry should get in step behind him.

The young baronet did as he was instructed, and soon they were padding down the hall towards the central staircase. John stopped to listen, and Henry bumped into him from behind, nearly upsetting a marble bust of Tennyson in the process.

It occurred to John that Henry Baskerville did not have much experience with adventuring.

While John was contemplating telling Henry to go back to his room, a shuffling noise reached his ears. He handed the candle to Henry and moved forward towards the sound coming from one of the rooms further down the hall, staying low, weapon held straight out before him.

The revolver felt unfamiliar in his hands, and though he figured it would do the job, he missed the Sig, the feel of the grip in his palm, the way his fingers curled around it like a natural extension of his hand.

The rustling came again, and John’s head whipped around towards the source of the sound. One of the empty bedrooms. The door was slightly ajar, and a thin line of light spilled into the dark hallway.

John inhaled, then kicked at the door. As it swung open, he entered. “Who’s there?” he demanded, gun trained on the source of light.

Mrs. Barrymore screamed and promptly dropped her lantern.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckets of thanks and little pink and red hearts to i_ship_an_armada and destinationtoast for their betawork.

**_Chapter 5._ ** _In Which A Secret is Revealed, A Baronet is Benched, and The Hunters Become the Hunted._

 

The scent of kerosene filled the dark room, and John could hear the woman taking ragged breaths. Using the candle he held, Henry lit the lamps near the door and the bedroom was filled with soft, yellow light.

John lowered his gun. “Mrs. Barrymore?”

She quivered in fear, and John set the revolver down on the side table near the door. He approached her slowly. “Are you all right, Mrs. Barrymore?”

Still shaking, she attempted to gather herself. “You gave me quite a fright you did, sir, if you don’t mind my saying,” she said, offering a weak smile though her voice wavered. Her dark brown eyes glanced out the window, and something she saw there made her pause.

“Do you see something?” Henry asked, his own voice becoming high and thready. “Do you see the hound?”

John frowned at the lack of logic being displayed by his host. “It’s unlikely, even with the full moon, that we could see anything distinct against the mist of the moor.”

Making his way towards where Mrs. Barrymore stood, Henry peered out the window as well. A gasp escaped him, and he pointed outside.

“A light!” he cried, and John ran over to look, hunching around the others to peer out the glass.

A dim but discernible glow winked in the distance through the fog, perhaps a mile from the house, the glow of a lantern very much like the one Mrs. Barrymore had let crash to the floor. John stood up straight and, turning to the distraught woman, fixed his gaze on her.

“Perhaps you’d better tell us what’s going on.”

“I know I’d like to know, sir,” came a voice from the hall, and three pairs of eyes turned to see Mr. Barrymore in the doorway.

“Oh, George!” Mrs. Barrymore exclaimed. A shudder ran through her and she swayed a bit, and Henry reached out to support her, Mr. Barrymore rushing to her side as well. Arm around his wife’s waist, Barrymore guided her over to the divan nearby. She seemed to collapse, and Barrymore looked up to John.

“Doctor?” he said, his voice calm but his eyes communicating his growing concern.

“Henry, if you could fetch Mrs. Barrymore some water,” John said, coming over to the couple. Henry seemed frozen in his tracks, and John was sure he’d managed to break yet another societal rule about who was supposed to be fetching things for whom, but he couldn’t have cared less at that moment. He broke out his captain’s voice. “And a blanket as well, before she goes into shock.”

Standing up straighter, Henry said, “Yes, of course!” and scuttled away, candle still in hand.

Squatting to be at her eye level, John switched personas smoothly, his voice calm and kind.

“What’s your name? Can you tell me?”

She answered through her shaky breaths. “Maggie. Barrymore.”

“And who’s this gentleman here to my left?”

“That there’s George, my husband.”

“Good. Very good. And what year is it?”

“1889.”

John closed his eyes for a moment and stifled a miserable laugh. “Yes. Right.” He nodded at her. “Good. Can you tell me what you saw outside?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before answering. “I saw . . . my brother.”

Barrymore said nothing, but John could see his tightening frame, the tension shooting through him. There was a lot more to this than either of them were saying.

“You’d best tell me all of it, Mrs. Barrymore, while Sir Henry’s still out of the room. I promise I’ll keep it in confidence if I can.”

She looked to her husband first, and then nodded to John. “He’s my half-brother. We grew up together even though we had different mothers. We got on, but he’s always been a bit wrong in the head, a dangerous sort. I tell you, God forgive me, I was glad to be rid of him once I was married and gone. But now he’s found me, and says he won’t leave me be, that I owe him, seeing as we’re family--”

There was a clatter in the hall that sounded like Henry tripping over the plant stand near the staircase.

“Quickly, Maggie,” Barrymore urged.

“He’s hiding on the moor, in the old stone huts out there, and he signals me for food at night. That’s why I had the lantern.” She took another fortifying breath. “It’s Selden. My brother is Albert Selden,” she sobbed miserably.

“The escaped murderer?” John asked, dipping his chin and looking up at her with wide eyes. Good God but this was getting ridiculous.

Nodding, the woman looked directly into John’s eyes, her own filled with tears. “How can I be rid of him? He’ll cost me everything, our place here, our lives, even. I wouldn’t put it past him!”

Barrymore leaned forward and clasped his wife’s hands in his own. “I’ll get to him, Maggie. He’ll go straight back to Princetown or straight to hell.”

A murderer running loose was only going to complicate things, John decided, and he hoped Barrymore would accept his coming along. “I’d like to help,” he said, “If you’ll have me.”

Barrymore considered, and John thought for certain a refusal was coming, but the man seemed to change his mind at the last moment. “Your assistance would be most welcome, Doctor Watson.”

“Right. Good. Play along then, and we’ll go after him.”

Juggling the lit candle, a goblet of water, a blanket, and, inexplicably, a fan, Henry came back into the room.

“Here we are!” he said in a loud voice from behind the mountainous blanket.

“Well done, Henry,” John praised, grasping the wobbling goblet and handing it to Mrs. Barrymore, then taking the blanket and giving it over to her husband, who went about settling it around her shoulders.

John stepped close and fixed Henry with as serious a gaze as he could muster. “It’s the hound, Henry.”

The color draining from his face, Henry repeated, “The hound?”

“Someone’s out there with it, and we’ve got to find out who.”

“ _We_?” Henry asked, as though terrified John was about to ask him to go out and hunt the thing.

“Not you!” John lowered his voice and placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s too dangerous--you’re the _target_! I need you to stay here, and keep an eye on Mrs. Barrymore. She’s had quite a fright.”

“Oh, yes,” Henry agreed quickly. “Yes, of course.”

“Barrymore and I will go.”

“Good man, yes, both of you.” His voice rose. “I’ll hold the fort.”

John and Barrymore took their leave, and after a short detour to his room for a coat and shoes, John rejoined the butler downstairs. He reached the landing, checking the chambers of his revolver, and Barrymore fell in step on his left, handing him a cardboard box of ammunition without a word as they walked in stride toward the front doors.

“Have you got something?” John asked. “A revolver? A fire poker? Anything?”

“Yes, sir,” Barrymore answered, pulling out a rifle from beneath his long overcoat. Though old-fashioned to John’s eyes, it still looked like it could take out anything that came within a hundred yards of it. “A . . . souvenir, from my time in the service.”

John nodded. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

They pushed through the doors together, and stepped out into the misty, moonlit night.

* * *

What John wouldn’t give for a police helicopter right about now. They’d started down the yew-lined driveway, attempting to isolate where Selden had signaled from, but the wide open gate on the north side of the drive meant that the man could have easily hidden anywhere upon the moor--which should have been called 'the murk' in John’s opinion, as he soon found out that one wrong step could have a man stuck in squelching mud and muck. It was only because there were two of them that they’d managed to avoid being pulled down into the mire-pits that dotted the moor like landmines.

Their kerosene lanterns, while helpful for avoiding mire-pits, were giving away their location like a lighthouse on a cliff, and John despaired of getting back safely to the house, much less finding Selden, who clearly knew the terrain better than they did. They chanced across one of the ancient, thatched-roof huts, but when they peered inside, the stone hearth was cold and empty, and it seemed it had been uninhabited for a very long time.

“Shame, really,” John said, kicking at an old, hole-filled cauldron. “I could do with a nice hot cuppa.”

Barrymore surprised him by actually smiling. “Yes, sir.”

John began to smile in return, but their moment of camaraderie was broken by the heart-stopping howl that reached their ears.

“That sounded rather close,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” Barrymore said. Though his voice was calm, his brown eyes darted over to the doorway of the hut with alarm.  

Snuffling noises nearby caused them both to tense up, and John leveled his revolver at the doorway. Tense moments passed as they waited, John feeling the sweat beading along his temple. Unhelpfully vivid images of the hound swam in his mind, depicting a gigantic creature with glowing red eyes and dripping jowls, hunched over the torn throat of Hugo Baskerville.

The animal’s cry came again, further away this time--but only just.

“Barrymore,” John began, lowering his gun a fraction.

“Yes, sir.” Barrymore’s eyes stayed fixed on the doorway.

“If you’re amenable, I suggest we get back to the house and hunt this thing--and Selden--by daylight.”

Barrymore nodded once, and John could see the relief bloom across his features.

Guns at the ready, they left the little hut behind, attempting to go back the way they had come. The moonlight, diffused by the mists, gave everything an unearthly glow--and disguised their path--so that they spent as much time going back as forth.

They’d made it about halfway back to the gate when the rustling began.

Never one to ignore his instincts, John paid attention to the prickle of fear that raised the hairs along his nape and his awareness heightened, his body attuned to Barrymore’s position in front of him, the dark shapes above him to the right, the sounds of the moor all around him that had seemed to go silent.

When the low, rattling growl came, his reaction was immediate.

Turning around swiftly, John fired a shot into the dark, aiming for where the sound had come from, but no yelp came to signal that he’d hit his mark. He felt Barrymore come up to his side and then heard the terrible creature growl again--more dragon than dog--and the crack and rustle of something running over twigs and through the underbrush.

There was no time to be cautious. John lowered his weapon and looked over to Barrymore.

“Run!”

The sounds intensified behind them as both men turned and ran, lanterns before them in a desperate attempt to see the path. The turns were nearly imperceptible, and at some point John went right when Barrymore went left and they could no longer see each other.

“Dr. Watson!” Barrymore hollered.

“Head for the house!” John answered across the mist. Hearing no reply, John was left to hope Barrymore had heard him, though it meant they’d both potentially revealed themselves, to Selden, to the hound--and to whoever else might be after them in this godforsaken place.

Lowering the wick in his lantern to the minimum, John made his way slowly, quietly through the murk, following the gentle upward slope of the hill. A tree seemed to appear out of the mist, and John headed for it, its wide trunk and thick branches offering a comforting solidity amid the mire and the fog. He clambered up onto the lowest branch, a good six feet above the ground, and set his back against the trunk. Relatively safe for the moment in his perch, John listened, but no unnatural sounds reached his ears as he crouched in the darkness. To the west stood the house, he knew, but he couldn’t see it; even though the crest of the hill--only about fifty yards away--was low overall, it was augmented at its summit by a rocky outcropping that blocked his view. South of him was the yew alley, probably not even that far, but still obscured. North, nothing but seemingly endless moor, dotted, as he had learned first hand, with mire-pits and stone huts. To the east, the first grey light of dawn began to eke its way through, and John allowed a modicum of relief to enter his bones. He relaxed a fraction against the broad, craggy trunk of the tree, knowing that in about an hour it would be light enough to navigate safely back to Baskerville Hall.

He should have known better than to let down his guard.

Turning back to look west, the sight that met John’s eyes made his heart pound and his shoes slip against the branch: the shadowy figure of a man stood outlined upon the rocks. As John watched, the figure turned its head slowly, scanning the moor around him.

John put out his lantern and attempted to calm his breathing, but a ragged gasp escaped him when the man’s head turned suddenly towards him, as though he had spotted John through the shadows and the mist. Holding on to the trunk with one hand, John aimed his revolver with the other, training his sights on the man upon the tor.

The figure remained unnaturally still, and John waited with suspended breath, unsure if the man could actually see him or not. The dawning light was still very weak, and the tree made for good cover to obscure his shape. Since the man made no effort to either charge or flee, John took the moment to observe him. Tall. Unafraid. Big, though the outline of his coat and the angle John viewed him from could be causing him to look larger than he was. The details were impossible to discern in the near-dark, but that didn’t keep John from squinting his eyes and trying.

And in that moment of squinting, the man disappeared. John looked, listened, but it was as though the figure had simply vanished, a dark apparition that had shimmered away into nothingness.  Feeling the adrenaline spiking through him, John blinked hard and willed himself to focus: _stay alert, Watson, watch for dawn, don’t fall out of the damn tree_.

After a good twenty minutes of hypervigilance, John decided the light was good enough to descend the haven of the tree. Having heard nothing out of the ordinary, he climbed down and began picking his way back to the gate, grateful to have his feet upon the solid ground of the driveway once more. As he walked back to the house, his thoughts swirled, his mind full of questions--was Barrymore all right? Were Selden and the hound somehow connected? Who was the man upon the tor?--but with no answers forthcoming, he felt the old tug of despair pulling at his heart. He was no closer to solving any of the mysteries he’d been confronted with. He arrived at the door disheartened, hungry, and chilled to the bone.

The door opened before he had even lifted his hand to knock, and his mood lightened to see Barrymore there, looking as spotless and competent as ever.

“Oh, thank God you’re all right,” John said, smiling even as his teeth gave to chattering.

“Thank you, sir. And the same to you,” Barrymore answered warmly, and John stepped into the house.

“I saw a man out there, just an outline,” John began as Barrymore closed the door behind him. “Is Selden tall, a big man?”

“Not big, sir,” said Barrymore, frowning as he placed a blanket over John’s shoulders. “He’s about Sir Henry’s height, though.”

“Well, it was hard to see clearly, the damn mist.” _And the fear_ , thought John. That didn’t help.

“Yes, sir.”

John noticed that he was being gently shepherded towards the staircase.

“There’s a fire laid in your room, sir, and breakfast will be served in an hour.”

Gratitude flooded John’s heart, and he nearly hugged the man.

“Barrymore, there is a place in heaven for you. I’m certain of it.”

For a moment amusement flickered over Barrymore’s face, but then John gave a violent sneeze, and Barrymore placed his hands firmly on John’s shoulders, propelling him upstairs.

* * *

 

A change of clothes brought some immediate relief, but John still shivered. The Barrymores had thought of everything, of course. A full pot of hot tea was set on a tray upon the writing desk, and the fire crackled invitingly before the armchair in his room. Since he still had some time before breakfast, John fixed himself a cuppa and grabbed the journal, intent on reviewing the facts of the case--or cases, really--such as they were.

He didn’t mind burning his tongue a bit on the tea, grateful for the heat. Setting the cup on the side table near the chair, he reached for the journal, recalling the sad little entry he’d made the night before--comparing Holmes and Sherlock, listing the ways Holmes showed his affection, openly missing his own Sherlock. He recalled the last line he had written, and how it felt even more true at this moment: _I don’t actually_ want _to solve puzzles without_ you.

He opened up the journal to the page where he’d left off and his heart nearly stopped.

Someone had written a line right under where he had finished the night before. There, in tidy printed script, was written one question:

**He _kissed_ you?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.** _In Which John Communicates With The Other Side, Priorities Are Exposed, and Siblings Don’t Get On._

 

**He _kissed_ you?**

John stared at the words, but any meaning eluded him as his mind swirled with questions. Did someone enter his room, read the journal, and then . . . _leave a comment_?

It didn’t make any sense, but as that was really par for the course lately, John pressed on. Clearly someone had taken advantage of John having left his room the night before--perhaps they had sneaked in while John was down the hall, tending to Mrs. Barrymore? But what possible motive could there be to writing that particular comment and then leaving the journal so that John would definitely see it?

Confronted with yet another mystery, John frowned and began to write.

_You know, it’s a bit much really. Laying it on a bit thick, here, universe. I think either Holmes would say there are too many variables in this increasingly ridiculous situation. Not enough to have time travel and identity confusion--we need a bloody hellhound, AND an escaped murderer, and now, a busybody who pokes their nose into other people’s business and out of that entire crazy mess decides the burning question they need to leave is ‘he kissed you?’, like a jealous teenager. Or a pearl-clutching old lady. Can’t decide which. Need more data._

As John looked down at his own writing, somehow, impossibly, words began forming on the page, black ink sinking into the paper as the letters appeared.

**If you’ve quite finished, we’ve got work to do, John.**

Someone was writing back to him.

John’s eyes went wide and he sat up straight, body suddenly on alert. He ran his fingers over the paper, turned the page, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No. Just ordinary paper. Ordinary ink. Ordinary words. That were magically appearing before his eyes.

Well. In for a penny.

_WHO IS THIS?,_ he wrote firmly, transmitting his captain’s tone through the graphite.

The alien words came again, flowing smoothly onto the page. **It’s me.**

Feeling completely outside of himself, John replied. _Not actually informative_.

**I am Sherlock Holmes. _The_ Sherlock Holmes. Or, rather, _your_ Sherlock Holmes. Of 2012. **

Simply not possible. _I think I’m hallucinating._

**You aren’t.**

Not an entirely persuasive argument in John’s opinion. However. Since so many impossible things had already occurred--

_Prove it._

**I can’t prove that you’re not hallucinating--it’s a completely subjective experience which feels real to you and so there is no disproving it.**

_I meant, prove that you’re . . . my Sherlock._

**Oh.**

**The password to your laptop is Fusiliers5. You keep extra ammunition for the Sig in the bottom drawer of your dresser under a truly hideous orange jumper even you would never wear. Your favorite mug for coffee is the black and white striped one and your favorite mug for tea is the RAMC one but I haven’t deduced why yet and that bothers me.**

John’s right hand flew up to his face, as his left clutched at the journal. He turned his head up and closed his eyes, overcome for a moment, sniffing mightily against the tide of joy that rushed through him. He looked back down through wet eyes, his gaze riveting itself to the journal, which had suddenly become the most precious thing in his tangled life, and he let his fingers trail over the strong, black ink on the page.

_Oh my God. SHERLOCK?_

**Also, apparently, you’ve trapped yourself in the past, with Past Me, and Past You is here with me instead and, though initially interesting, the novelty has worn off and the situation is now entirely unacceptable.**

_Oh my God, Sherlock. There’s so much I need to tell you, to ask you! How did I get here? And how are you able to write to me? How is Past Me with you? Has he been able to communicate with his Holmes? Do you know what’s happening? How do I get back home?_

**John. Isolate the most important question.**

There was only one that mattered. _How do I get back to you?_

**I don’t know. Yet. If my hypothesis is correct, it’s something to do with the items Dr. Mortimer left here for us to peruse.**

_Yes, the journal! There was an old leather journal in the envelope; it belonged to Watson. That’s what I’m writing in._

**I surmised as much. Just as you are seeing my words in his journal, I am seeing your words on your “journal.”**

_I don’t have a journal._

**Your blog, John.**

_Bloody hell. Really?_

**It’s showing up as a private post. I haven’t enough data, but I believe that if Past You would deign to post something onto your blog, we could . . . effect a transfer.**

_So, do it!_

**Past You is uncooperative.**

Uncooperative? Well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why a Watson might be stubborn with a Holmes.

_Sherlock. What did you do?_

**I didn’t do anything! The man has no interest in returning to the past.**

John swallowed around the panic that rose in his throat, recalling that Holmes and Watson had quarrelled over something--perhaps this was Watson’s way of making Holmes sweat a bit. _What do you mean?_ John wrote.

**He is fascinated by the present, fascinated by me, fascinated by the taps running hot and cold water. Honestly, it’s exhausting. The only thing he doesn’t want to talk about is Past Me.**

_Fascinated by you, is he?_

**Well. He is _you_ , after all.**

_Not really, no. Holmes isn’t you. He’s like you, sure, but he’s not you._

**As you enumerated.**

_Are you . . . do you have questions?_

**Thousands, but unlike you, I can prioritize. What’s the situation now?**

John forced his brain to focus and spent five minutes summing up what had been going on in the last twenty-four hours. The narrative looked even more ridiculous to him written out--a timeline of absurdity, one unbelievable bullet point after another. Sherlock, for his part, only interrupted twice, and soon John reached the present--or _his_ present, such as it was.

_I’m in my room in Baskerville Hall. Breakfast soon, and then out to hunt again, without Barrymore, probably, as someone needs to stay and guard the house, and Henry is surprisingly useless in that regard._

**Where’s Holmes?**

_London._

**London!**

_He said he had a pressing case to deal with. Imagine that._

**Well. If he’s anything like me, he’s lying. I’d wager he wanted to do some investigating of his own rather than recklessly wave a gun about in the fog without any data.**

_Are you really calling me ‘reckless’?_

**You’re the one who got yourself transported 123 years into the past.**

_Yes, I suppose that was rather careless of me. Can you fix it? You and that marvelously clever brain of yours?_

**Working on it.**

_Anything I can do on this end?_

**Keep the journal with you. And don’t die.**

John rolled his eyes. _Oh, good. Yeah. Brilliant. Any other pearls of wisdom?_

**Continue playing the game.**

_What does that even mean?_

**Got to go. Past You is even needier than you.**

_Needier than . . . hang on, what ‘needs’ has he got, exactly?_

**I’ll write when I know more.**

_Sherlock!_

_Sherlock?_

But he was gone. John wanted to take heart, and he was tremendously comforted by having communicated with his Sherlock, at least in some form, but it was so hard to take anything for granted, to count on being able to reach Sherlock again when he needed to, wanted to.

Though his burden felt just a bit lighter as he dressed, pulling on the layers of his costume, readying himself to play his part, the real John beneath felt the darkness waiting in the shadows. He knew himself well enough to picture what his life would become without a Holmes in it, and it was a dreary image indeed.

* * *

 

After a quick, private consultation with Barrymore, John sat down to a blessedly full breakfast with Henry. It was agreed that Henry would stay under guard at the hall, and John would make his way across the moor again, towards the nearest neighbors--the Stapletons of Merripit House. Henry worried for their safety, as they lived only with one elderly couple as servants. John had enough problems without fussing over the neighbors, too, but Henry made a point of stating that Miss Stapleton in particular was sometimes incautious in her walks along the moor, and John got the distinct impression that the baronet was rather fond of her.

_Of course he is_ , John thought as he walked along the yew alley, the revolver a comforting weight at his side. _Because what’s an adventure story without some romance thrown in?_

John stopped short of criticizing Henry though, recognizing that he’d managed to fall into some romance himself--at first, inadvertently: that warm, lazy kiss with Holmes that hinted at banked passion and urgency. But the second kiss, the one John chose to bestow in a moment of impulse . . . that one was harder to rationalize away. He had told himself he was playing his part, but that didn’t explain why he found his face warming at the memory of Holmes’ little intake of breath, the softness of his lips against his own.

John sniffed and walked faster, determined not to think about it for another moment.

But then, Sherlock’s question, what was _that_ about? He replayed their conversation in his mind, not needing to refer the journal in his coat pocket, for it was etched already in his memory. Sherlock had told him to “isolate the most important question” and criticized him for not prioritizing, and yet, faced with all the information John had written the night before, Sherlock’s first and only question had been, “He _kissed_ you?”

Huh. Priorities.

And what of Watson’s neediness? Watson and Holmes were clearly in an established romantic, sexual relationship, and what if Watson had assumed Sherlock and John were as well? Was he . . . Would he . . .

John grit his teeth and slammed shut that particular door in his mind. His gaze lifted and he stopped his march to step through the north gate, finding the path much more easily now that there was light.  Much of the low fog had burned off though the day remained overcast and grey, and he was able to see much further--so much so that he saw a figure darting about the moor. At first, his body went on alert, thinking it might be Selden, but as he continued walking, he saw the fluttering of skirts. He moved to step closer.

“Stop right there!” the woman commanded him, her voice carrying easily over the distance. He cocked his head at her, and then looked down. Only two feet in front of him lay one of the bigger mire-pits he’d seen, concealed by a patch of tall grass.

_God damn bloodthirsty moor._

He looked up again to see the woman making her way to him, hopping around the mire-pits in a strange dance--one of which she clearly knew all the steps by heart. The skirts of her emerald green dress were tucked up into her sash, and some sort of collection bag hung from a leather strap across her torso.

“Much better if I come to you,” she said as she stopped within a couple of yards of him. She smiled broadly, hazel eyes shining, and her teeth were a bright white in contrast to her tan skin. A few tendrils of her dark hair had escaped the confines of her wide-brimmed hat, framing her features in curling waves.

In short, she was one of the most beautiful women John Watson had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling. John Watson had many sorts of smiles for many sorts of occasions, and this one most certainly called for his Charming smile.

“Yes, well, you have got important work to do, Doctor. Can’t have you sinking into the depths,” she answered, returning the smile easily.

Cocking his head, John met her gaze. “You’ve got the advantage on me.”

“Oh! Sorry, yes. Word travels remarkably fast in a small village like Grimpen. We’re all so grateful you’re here to sort out this awful business. Oh, but forgive me. I’m Beryl Stapleton.”

John nodded. Of course she was. No wonder Henry was sweet on her.

“Ah, Miss Stapleton! Splendid. I was just making my way to Merripit House to, uh, call on you and your esteemed brother,” he said, proud of how he was managing his Victorian-speak so far today.

At the mention of the brother, a cloud passed over her features, only for an instant, but John noted it before she arranged her smile on her face once more.

“Well, you’d better follow me, then, Dr. Watson.”

He nodded, and she led the way, walking a step or two ahead of him. The house was still a good mile away, and they filled the time with chatting. Once John asked her about the collection bag, Beryl brightened considerably, and she explained about her interests in botany and entomology, the specimens she had collected that morning, what she had learned of the moor in her two  years there. John listened, not only to her words but her voice--the tone, the mood of it, the accent. Had Holmes or Sherlock been there, they would have easily identified where she was from, down to the neighborhood, but all John could discern was a slight hitch in her accent here and there--mostly English, but something else, too.

Once they reached sight of the great house, they could see a one-horse carriage pulling up the drive. Beryl stopped talking and her posture stiffened, and she pulled the edges of skirts out of her sash, smoothing them down. She fussed a moment, tucking the loose hairs back under her hat, but it seemed a hopeless endeavor.

John had no doubt that Mr. Stapleton was the man in the carriage. As they came closer, a thin man with fair skin and dark hair alighted from the carriage, took one look at Beryl, and frowned.

“Good morning, brother,” Beryl greeted, and the quiet defiance in her voice was not subtle, and John was reminded of another pair of siblings he knew.

“And to you, sister.” Stapleton’s silver-eyed gaze flicked to John. “I see you’ve collected another specimen.”

If it was an attempt at humor, it fell decidedly flat, and John did not return the man’s thin smile. “Dr. John Watson,” he said with a curt nod. “I’m a friend of Sir Henry’s.”

“Jack Stapleton.” He offered his hand, and John was surprised to find his grip so firm when they shook hands.

“Yes, such an ordeal Sir Henry’s been through--the death of his father, and this horrible business with the hound,” Jack continued, smoothing the front of his coat and looking around at nothing in particular as though bored.

Everything about this man annoyed John, and Beryl’s continued unease put him on alert as well. “Sir Henry was quite concerned, actually. Wanted me to make sure no harm had come to you or yours,” John said.

“How kind of you both, but I assure you, Beryl and I are quite safe.” Stapleton added an insincere, placating smile, and John felt his ire stirring. “Though our staff is not so great as that of Baskerville Hall, the house here is _very_ secure.”

John smiled, and had either of them known him better, they’d have recognized that it was his Angry smile, the one he gave before punching someone who deserved it. Reining himself in, John settled for simply getting out of there as soon as he could. “Jolly good,” he said, not caring whether it was period-appropriate. “Sir Henry will be glad to hear of it.”

Beryl placed a hand on his arm, and John turned to look at her. “Do stay for tea,” she said, but there wasn’t much power behind it.

“I’m sure Dr. Watson has more important things to do,” Stapleton dismissed, and John grit his teeth together.

Virtually ignoring the brother, John addressed the sister instead. “Perhaps another time, thank you.”

Beryl gave him a genuine smile, and patted his shoulder. “Another time, then.” She turned and nearly glowered at her brother, and John wanted nothing more than to extricate himself from whatever sibling rivalry was going on.

They took their leave from one another. Stapleton stepped toward the house, and Beryl moved towards the mare that had pulled the carriage, feeding her something from her collection bag. John turned to go back onto the moor, but then heard his name.

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” Stapleton was saying from the steps. “I don’t suppose your colleague will be joining you?”

John squinted at him. “Colleague?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Pausing a moment at consider why Stapleton had asked, John answered, “He’ll come when I need him.”

Stapleton nodded. “Very good,” he said, and turned away again, stepping up to the main door, which was opened for him, and disappearing inside. Before John had a moment to ponder further, Beryl was at his elbow.

“Doctor, I implore you--”

John looked down to her earnest face, etched with concern as her hands grasped his forearm tightly.

“--get Henry away from this wretched place!”

Brows drawing down, John asked, “Miss Stapleton, do you know something? Do you know who is threatening Henry?”

“No; not specifically.” She loosened her grip, and she looked up at him with pleading eyes, clearly as taken with Henry as he was with her. “I just know he is in danger as long as he’s here.”

“I’m doing everything in my power to protect him.”

She let go his arm. “Thank you, Doctor.” Seemingly embarrassed by her passionate entreaty, she sniffed and took a step back, painting on a smile. “Godspeed,” she said, and she turned away, walking towards the house.

Looking up at the door as it closed behind her, John pressed his lips together in a tight frown. What the hell kind of gothic soap opera had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big pirate-y kisses to Armada for speedy and thorough beta services. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter 7._ ** _In Which There is A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread, And Thou. Sort of._

John spent the next hour eking his way out across the moor, making very little progress. It was impossible to find any tracks--human or canine--in the murky, spongy earth, and every hut he had come across so far was like the one he and Barrymore had found the night before: empty and uninhabited for ages.

It was noon, and whatever hope of sunlight there had been was doused by the dark clouds moving eastward across the sky. The already strong smell of damp earth intensified, and John felt rather certain it would rain soon--if not because of the physical signs, then because that seemed to be his luck lately. John’s stomach complained, and he remembered the lunch Mrs. Barrymore had packed for him that now lay tucked in his inner coat pocket, still warm against his chest. Suddenly ravenous, he dug into his pocket, bringing out the towel-wrapped pasty and the metal flask of tea.

His teeth broke through the hardy crust and seasoned beef and vegetables filled his mouth, the juices dancing along his tastebuds, and he thought the one thing he might miss from this whole crazy adventure was the food. He stopped his walking and closed his eyes just a moment, savoring the tangible comfort and warmth the pasty offered, the simplicity of it--no blasted mystery to it, no hidden meaning, no romantic entanglements.

Practicality surfacing, John ate only half, wrapping the remainder up and stowing it away in his pocket for later. There was no telling what the rest of the afternoon would bring, after all.

* * *

Luck changing in his favor for once, John caught a break. As he peeked into yet another stone hut (his ninth that day), gun drawn before him, a welcome sight greeted his eyes. Though no one was home, there were clear signs someone had been living here, and recently. The embers in the hearth still glowed, heat emanating out from them, and a kettle hung on a swinging hook alongside the fireplace. A cot of sorts had been rigged opposite the fire from a mattress made of dry moss and straw, bound by thin rope and covered with several blankets. A simple wooden chair sat next to the hearth, and on a stone shelf near the roughly-hewn window there was an unlit lantern, a brown glass bottle, and a wicker basket filled with a pungent cheese, dense brown bread, and a pot of quince jam.

_Finally_ , though John. This had to be Selden’s hideout, and John wasn’t letting a chance to catch the murderer unawares slip through his fingers. He pulled the chair back a bit, closer to the fire so that he would be hidden from anyone’s line of sight if they looked in through the window or the doorway, but he would be able to see them, the darkness inside the hut aiding him. He sat straight, eyes sharp and revolver in hand as the first raindrops began to fall.

* * *

Patience was a situational trait for John Watson.  Given the promise of impending adventure, John could wait. Between cases he relaxed and slept and wrote without feeling any need to infuse action or create drama in his life, for he was confident they would pop up without any prompting on his part. Same with the army, which for him, had been long periods of waiting punctuated by flashes of combat.  When danger was on the wind, he could sit back and let the anticipation focus him. Still him.

There were times, though, when stillness and quiet were not partnered with the potential for excitement, no oncoming highs or lows, just a long, flat line of existence strung out into the foreseeable future. In those times, John felt almost as if he were slipping away from himself, fading to muted shades of beige.  

Now, however, John felt a different sort of slippage. There was adventure and danger in spades around him, but yet he felt himself drifting, away from Sherlock, away from himself. Pulling out the journal with one hand, John fingered over to the last page used, hoping for new words to have appeared in the last few hours. But there was nothing, and John felt more than disappointment. He recognized something akin to despair was brewing in his chest, as readily as he had sensed the coming of the storm now assailing the moor. Because as clever as Sherlock was, as Holmes was, this was nothing any of them had ever dealt with before, and when John tucked the journal away, he felt his hope beginning to drift from him as well.

It was in this mood adventure found him once more.

The scraping of boot against stone alerted him, and a tall, hulking figure filled the doorway. John’s hand held the revolver steady as the figure turned and faced him.

“It really is a lovely afternoon, my dear Watson,” the man said, and John’s heart nearly leapt into his throat.

“No need for gunplay at present, I would imagine,” said Holmes with a sly smile, and John lowered his arm, feeling for all the world as though a great mantle of sadness had been lifted from his shoulders.

Holmes turned away a moment, removing a massive coat and wide-brimmed hat and setting them in a corner near the window, his silhouette now transformed back into the one John recognized, the slim but strong build, the tailored suit, and smooth, dark hair.

Standing from the chair and tucking the revolver away on the rough shelf above the fireplace, John faced Holmes and made a decision.

“We need to talk.”

Holmes looked him up and down with his keen blue eyes and raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I expect so.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m not . . .” _God_. Something about saying it out loud made it so much more inconceivable. John was compelled to inhale sharply, though it did not make what he had to say any easier. “I am not _your_ Watson. I am someone else’s Watson. Another Sherlock’s Watson.”

Holmes’ face remained calm, and when he said nothing, John continued.

“I’m from--” He cleared his throat. “--the future.”

The silence was so long that John wondered if Holmes had heard him or if he had even spoken the words aloud. As John searched his features for any sign of acceptance, the mask cracked, and Holmes began to laugh, loudly, without restraint. Goggle-eyed, John watched as Holmes appeared to have a sort of fit, holding his belly and bending over a bit as he laughed.

“I know,” John said, looking down and chuckling, “it sounds ridiculous.”

Before he could look up again, he felt the full force of Holmes crashing into him, knocking him backwards. His back hit the stone wall with a thud, and he looked up to see Holmes glaring at him, lips drawn tightly over his teeth in a grimace.

“Jesus Christ, Holmes!” John spat, but he didn’t push Holmes away.

“Imposter!” Hands clenching the lapels of John’s coat, Holmes shoved him anew.

“Yes!” John agreed, nodding, and then grimacing. “Sort of!” He raised his hands as high as he could with Holmes half-throttling him, and spread his fingers in surrender, but Holmes was not appeased.

“Where is Watson!”

John took a quick breath. “ _Your_ Watson is with _my_ Sherlock.”

Though his grip loosened a fraction, Holmes’ face twisted up in doubt. “In the _future_?” he asked with scorn.

“Look, I know it sounds ludicrous, and I don’t have any verifiable way of proving it, but it is the truth.” He waited until the suspicious blue eyes met his. “I swear it.”

Brows drawing down, Holmes’ eyes narrowed to slits. “ _You have his face._ ”

“I know,” John said softly, trying to convey some miserable sympathy through his features as he looked back at a man who wore the same face as his Sherlock.

Holmes shoved a hand under the upper edge of John’s waistcoat, his fingers pressing against his left shoulder. “You have his _scar_.”

John nodded. “And yet.” He looked into Holmes’ piercing eyes, and his own eyes crinkled with entreaty. “You _know_ I’m not him.”

Holmes remained frozen as he was, eyes full of heat, hands still laid upon John in anger and confusion. John tried to make himself as nonthreatening as possible, keeping his muscles loose, his features soft. _Please, please, believe me._ He scanned his mind for something he could say, something to convince Holmes of this impossible truth. Though Holmes’ icy gaze remained the same, John felt Holmes’ grip loosen where he clenched at John’s lapel until the fingers now just rested along the fabric of John’s coat. John marshalled his courage. _Now, Watson._

“When you have eliminated the impossible--” John began quietly. _Please, God, let this work._

“--whatever remains, however improbable--” Holmes continued, the words escaping from him softly, almost against his will.

“--must be the truth,” they said together.

Holmes’ face went oddly blank for a moment, but it was a mask, something John was well-acquainted with from Sherlock’s own version of it, and so John still caught the hint of wonder and recognition that crossed his features--a slight widening of his eyes, the modest parting of his lips--before the eagle-eyed focus returned.

“Tell me _everything_.” Holmes dropped his hands away and took a step back. “Omit nothing,” he ordered with an imperious wave, “no matter how insignificant you may believe it to be.”

John held up a hand in compliance. “All right.” He’d guessed already that Holmes would want all the details. “But I’m going to sit. I suggest you do, too--it’s not a short story.”

Sitting across the cot, his legs straight and his back against the stone wall, John watched Holmes carefully. Though grateful that he’d somehow persuaded him to listen, John was not at all complacent. It was going to take more than earnestness to convince him, and he hoped his narrative--and the journal--would be enough. Holmes, for his part, seemed willing to hear him out. In fact, he seemed prepared to settle in for a long talk, moving over to the little fireplace to poke at the embers with the fire iron and adding a log from the pile to the side. Once the flames caught, Holmes went over to what John thought of as the ‘pantry’, grabbing the basket of food and the dark brown bottle from the shelf.

He set the basket on the cot and handed the bottle to John. As Holmes arranged himself a few feet from him, John tipped the bottle gently. “What’s this?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Surely they have whisky in the future.”

John gave him a little smile. “Yeah, but what’s it for? I’m already planning to tell you everything.”

His long fingers slipping over John’s as he took the bottle, Holmes pulled out the cork stopper and sipped generously. John found himself watching Holmes’ lips where they met the rim, noting the undulation along his throat as he swallowed. As Holmes pulled the bottle away from his lips, he caught John’s gaze--and John did not turn away.

“Let us consider it Coleridge’s ‘suspension of disbelief’,” Holmes said, handing it back over. “In liquid form.”

John grasped the bottle. “Yeah, all right.” He took a generous pull of his own, his eyes never leaving Holmes, who watched John as closely as John had watched him. He held the bottle out to Holmes, their fingers brushing against each other’s again as Holmes took it and then replaced the cork.

The strangeness of their situation vibrated between them, and seeing the look of expectation in Holmes’ eyes, John felt a crackle of excitement--and trepidation.

Having no idea if Holmes would actually believe a word of it, John took a shuddering breath and began to tell his tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oodles of thanks to Armada and Toast for speedy and insightful betawork.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter 8._ ** _In Which There is Imagination and Impulse, Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations._

 

As the fire and the whisky warmed them, John related the entire tale again, Holmes listening intently and going so far as to examine the journal with his magnifying glass. Disappointed that there was still no new word from Sherlock, John left the journal open and set it at the edge of the cot.

They lapsed into a foggy silence, sitting beside each other on the makeshift bed. John stared out the window at the rain as it poured steadily outside, and his thoughts turned sorrowful once more.

“It’s mad, I know.” He took another generous sip from the brown bottle and then held it loosely in his hand, his elbows resting on his bent knees. “I don’t expect you to believe it. I hardly do, and I’m living it.”

The pause from Holmes was long enough that now John was doubly sure that Holmes did not believe him, and he smiled miserably to himself, dropping his gaze to the floor.

After a while, Holmes began. “My profession-- _our_ profession--”

John looked over to him.

“--requires an open mind. How often has what others consider impossible turned out to be the solution to the puzzle?”

Knitting his brow, John tilted his head at Holmes. “Nice of you to say so.”

Holmes’ eyebrows lifted. “And _your_ Holmes, I take it, is not so nice?”

“He has his moments,” John said, smiling to himself. “But mostly he’s an abrasive arse.”

Holmes surprised him by smiling in return. “I suspect my Watson might say the same about me.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “Your _dear_ Watson.”

“That I have refrained from accosting you again is testament to how much I’m willing to wait and see whether the future Mr. Holmes communicates once more to verify your account. If I believed Watson were in danger or had been injured, your uncanny resemblance to him would offer you no protection.”

Holmes eyes glittered with intensity, and John had no doubt he spoke the truth. Marvelling at how much this Holmes appeared to care for his Watson, John’s expression softened. “How did the two of you get together? Romantically, I mean?”

Eyes widening a moment, Holmes opened his mouth as if to answer but then turned his head away a moment. When he looked at John again, his tone was matter-of-fact--but his slight stammer betrayed he was not as reserved as he wished to seem. “Oh. I. I admit, I was not as astute in my powers of observation with him as you might think.”

John thought of his own emotionally clueless Sherlock, and said, “You don’t say?”

“No, it’s true. He finally lost his not inconsiderable patience with me and demonstrated his affection in a manner that even I had to concede was unequivocal.”

Curiosity pressed at John. “And how did he do that?”

A pink flush bloomed across Holmes’ pale cheeks. “He kissed me. Thoroughly, and passionately. Right over the breakfast table.”

John chuckled softly. A wistful expression passed over Holmes’ face.

“What is it?”

Holmes half-shrugged. “Even your laugh is nearly indistinguishable from his.”

“Nearly?”

“There are subtle differences, of course.” His lip quirked up. “And some not so subtle.” He raised his hand, his index finger coming to rest across the top of John’s upper lip.

John smiled, his skin brushing against Holmes’ finger, and he lifted his own hand up, reaching out cautiously to touch Holmes’ cheek with his fingertips. Despite the circumstances, John felt himself drawn to Holmes, wanting to trace the similarities, the differences between him and Sherlock. Holmes seemed to feel a similar pull, his hand sliding down to cup John’s chin in the cradle of his fingertips.

“You have _his_ face, you know,” John said. His fingers nearly burned from the sensation of Holmes’ skin beneath them, the fact that he had never touched his Sherlock this way--reverently, gently, with the promise of more. It was easier, somehow, in this time, with this facsimile of Sherlock, to be bold. The discernible attraction between them compelled John to follow his impulses, and he let his eyes roam over Holmes’ features, saw Holmes’ own gaze do the same. The rain outside continued, shrouding them, and John let his fingers ghost over Holmes’ features as he spoke. “Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same lips.”

“You miss him,” Holmes said, his voice soft and pitched low.

John could feel the rumble of Holmes’ voice where his palm rested just below Holmes’ jaw. He swallowed, his throat feeling tight, and his voice came softly. “Of course I do.”

Holmes tilted his face a fraction, pressing just a little into John’s palm. His voice softened as well, a hush against the sound of the rain. “I miss my John.”

The hand that held John’s chin slipped forward, coming to rest at John’s nape, fingers traveling up into his short hair to cup the back of his head.

“His smile. His eyes.” Holmes’ fingers tightened, and John let himself lean forward, just a bit, just a little. “The feel of him.”

Breath quickening, John held Holmes’ gaze, unwilling--unable--to break it.

“Have you felt this with him?”

John didn’t have to ask what Holmes’ meant. The attraction hummed between them like an energy field.

“There was a moment,” John answered, his voice breathy and low. “Lots of moments, but one when I thought, ‘maybe’. ‘Maybe he feels the same.’ I thought I saw it in his eyes.” John dropped his gaze, remembering the hallway, the interruption, the way Sherlock’s face rearranged itself. He looked up again. “Maybe I imagined it.”

“Imagination is a powerful thing,” Holmes conceded. “It would take very little effort, for example, to imagine my Watson here. That it was his nape beneath my fingers. His touch upon my face.”

“Yes,” John breathed.

“I imagine it would be easy for you to do the same. To see, in your mind, his eyes in mine, to sense his touch through my skin.”  Holmes flexed his fingers across the back of John’s neck, and John felt the sensation roll down his spine to pool in his groin. He stared at Holmes’ lips, pale pink and supple, and in that moment he took the leap, letting go the reins that constrained his imagination so that beneath his gaze reality altered. The bow-shaped lips became Sherlock’s lips, the piercing blue eyes became Sherlock’s gaze, full of heat.

“Yes,” John breathed, just as he pulled the other man forward and kissed him. Warm, soft lips met his, eager but unhurried, and John kissed back experimentally. He parted his lips to deepen the kiss and a small moan reached his ears. The lips he kissed mirrored his, opening up to him, and they pulled each other closer, probing gently at each other’s mouths with lips and tongues.

The strangeness of it all re-emerged, breaking the spell imagination had cast, and even as they kissed, John found himself comparing, found himself thinking. This kiss, as the ones he’d shared with Holmes before, was exciting, yes, because it was strange and tinged with a sense of the forbidden, and yet--the spark did not catch.

The almost-kiss he and Sherlock had shared had held the promise of wildfire.

Holmes had reached a similar conclusion, or so it seemed to John as Holmes pulled back, breaking their kiss. John retreated as well, and the two men looked at each other.

“Perhaps there are limits to imagination,” Holmes said with kindness.

John gave a sad smile of agreement. “You’ll have him back soon. You and Sherlock will figure this out, and we’ll--each of us--get back to where and when we belong.”

Holmes smiled, but John saw the concern linger in his eyes.

“Then you can apologize for whatever you did that ticked him off,” John teased, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Mouth popping open, Holmes looked positively offended. “What makes you so certain that it was _I_ who--”

John grinned and shook a finger at him. “Balance of probability,” he said, and a giggle bubbled out from his throat.

“You, sir, are a rake.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes at John. “Possibly.”

“That’s Sherlockian for yes.”

Holmes smirked and John laughed, taking another drink, and then Holmes was reaching for the bottle. John passed it over, thinking Holmes wanted a sip, but the man replaced the cork in the bottle and set it in the basket off to the side.

Frowning at him, John pulled the journal into his lap and dug a pencil out from his pocket.

“What are you going to write?” Holmes asked, his brows drawn together in suspicion.

John did not look up from the page. “Something rakish.” He dotted the last period emphatically and handed it over for Holmes to read.

_Sherlock. Despite your “orders” to play the game, I’ve told Holmes everything. We’ve had a bit of a snog and now it’s all sorted. Laterz._

“‘Snog’ means a _tête-à-tête_ , I take it.”

“Good deduction. Yeah.” John gave another grin and then shoved at the mattress as though trying to fluff it like a pillow. Giving up, he removed his overcoat and balled it up against the wall in the corner and arranged himself so he could lean his head against it. He glanced out at the rain that persisted outside the window and glanced back at Holmes. “May as well make yourself comfortable.”

Holmes watched him, his curiosity apparent as he set the journal down. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his pipe and began to prepare it. A smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “You are not a nice man, John Watson.”

Eyes already closed, John answered. “I’m _really_ not.”

* * *

John did not know how much time had passed, only that he’d been having a fitful dream about a shadowy beast with glowing eyes one moment and was being gently shaken awake the next.

He blinked once up at Holmes’ face and then focused. “Yes?”

“The rain has ceased for now but looks to resume soon.” Holmes stood and pulled on his black overcoat. “I suggest we go back to Baskerville Hall with haste.”

John nodded and got up from where he’d wedged himself into the corner with more creaking in his bones than he’d like to admit. It was getting late, the sun having just barely dipped below the horizon, and he almost shuddered at the thought of another night on the moor. He quickly shook out the overcoat he’d been abusing as a pillow and pulled it on, attempting to smooth the creases he’d put into it. When he looked up, Holmes was frowning at him.

“What?”

Rather than answer, Holmes stepped forward and reached out without preamble, pulling down at John’s lapels, straightening his ascot and tucking it back in neatly. He glanced up at John’s disheveled hair and tsked.

“Tell me,” Holmes said, producing a comb from his pocket and handing it to John. “Is everyone in the future so slovenly?”

John found himself wondering what Victorian was for “sod off”, but took the comb and ran it through his hair anyway. He handed it back and glanced around the room, seeking the journal.

Holmes picked up the basket and tapped its side. “No reply, as yet.”

John’s heart sank a little to hear it, but he tried to remind himself that Sherlock only ever did things according to his own timetable, and that just because they hadn’t heard from him in nearly twelve hours, there was no reason to assume the worst.

Holmes had already doused the fire and gathered their things, so that soon they were ducking under the low doorway and going out onto the darkening moor together. They talked only when necessary, each man focused on the winding path.

They had not made it far when a sudden cry pierced the quiet. Both men turned towards the source of the noise, and John wasted no time in pulling out his revolver.  

“This way,” Holmes said, and John followed as Holmes hurried--as much as one could on the moor, anyway. No other sounds of distress reached their ears, but soon they came to a craggy edge, and when they peered over the lip, the cliff face fell sheer away, a twelve-foot drop. On the rocks below lay a rumpled shape, shadowed by the cliff, but there was no mistaking what it was--a body, splayed face-down upon the rocks below.

John scrambled around the edge, making his way to the bottom before Holmes, though he was fast on John’s heels.

“Jesus, Holmes, I think it’s Henry,” he said, dropping next to the body and pressing his fingers to the dead man’s neck.

“What makes you say so?”

“The clothes--this coat. It’s almost identical to the one he wears whenever we go out.”

“ _Almost_ identical?”

John nodded. His hands prodded gently at the body as Holmes circled around it.

“He’s dead. Broken neck.”

“Doubtless from the fall. He was running from something, and filled with enough fear that he failed to see the drop before he ran over it. But listen, Watson! We’re about to have a witness upon us, if I am not very much mistaken.”

Looking up to where Holmes’ eyes were focused on the path that led up to the cliff-top, John saw the silhouette of a man walking down with an unrushed, jaunty gait. The man paused a moment when he saw them, and then continued, and John recognized the face of Jack Stapleton.

“Dr. Watson! What’s happened?” he asked, though his tone and the indifferent look in his brown eyes indicated he hardly cared. “I heard a cry.”

“We heard it, too,” John answered. Holmes deliberately stepped aside to more plainly reveal the body on the rocks at their feet.

“Good heavens! That’s--that’s Sir Henry!” Stapleton cried.

“That’s what we were about to ascertain,” Holmes said. “Watson, if you’ll assist me in turning over this unfortunate man, that we may see his face.”

Bending down to help roll the body, John kept one eye on Stapleton, who had just jumped to the top of his suspect list. Once turned, a stranger’s face looked up at him--dirty, bearded, with a wild look to the eyes--and John let out a breath of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” Stapleton said. John couldn’t pinpoint it; Stapleton’s comment seemed sincere on the surface, but something about him didn’t sit right with John, and he vowed to discuss it with Holmes as soon as they were alone once more.

“But who is the poor devil?” Stapleton asked, looking to John, but it was Holmes who answered.

“That is the escaped convict, Albert Selden.”

“Oh! Well. Of course, you would know, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Stapleton said, and John’s eyes narrowed. Holmes, however, took it in stride, and he bowed curtly.

John introduced them through half-gritted teeth. “Holmes, this is Mr. Jack Stapleton, of Merripit House.”

“Yes. I suspect Mr. Selden has spent the last fortnight going mad with isolation and fear. Tonight, he seems to have let his imagination get the best of him, with fatal consequences.”

“Perhaps he feared the hound,” Stapleton offered.

“Ah, yes, the mythical hound. I’ve no use for legend or rumor, Mr. Stapleton. Facts are what is needed to solve this case--and they have been in short supply, I’m afraid.” Holmes spoke in a calm, carefree manner, and Stapleton’s curiosity seemed roused, his head tilting to one side.

“Have you been able to shed any light on this puzzle of ours, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes gave a shrug. “One cannot always have the success one hopes. It has not been a satisfactory case, a truth I shall have to carry with me back to London tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow?_ John barely refrained from asking out loud, but the question sat clearly in his gaze as he looked up at Holmes.

“You return so soon?” Stapleton asked, equally surprised.

“That is my intention. Now, as for this fellow, I suggest we cover him and inform the constabulary, that they might remove him. There is nothing more to be done.”

John took a blanket from the basket to arrange over Selden’s body. Stapleton stood well back and snuck glances at Holmes as they covered Selden. Though he invited them to return to Merripit House with him for dinner, Stapleton was visibly relieved when they declined, and he took his leave, walking back the way he’d came, up towards the cliff and away, the red glow of his lit cigar signalling his location in the twilight.

As soon as Stapleton was out of earshot, John turned to Holmes.

“You bloody well aren’t leaving me here alone again!” he hissed.

Holmes frowned at him. “What? No, of course not.” He waved a hand at John. “We’ve got a murderer to ensnare, and I’ve just conceived the net with which we shall catch him.”

John tilted his chin up at Holmes in the half-light.

Holmes’ wide smile of delight nearly bisected his face.  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, dear readers, and thank you again to Armada and Toast for insightful betaing. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, dear readers! ♥

**Chapter 9.** _In Which Progress is Made in More Ways Than One._

 

Holmes and John had walked briskly once they reached the main path, neither man eager to be out on the moor once dusk settled in. The twilight faded quickly, the yew trees no more than silhouettes, and it was dark by the time they reached the steps of Baskerville Hall. John lifted his fist to rap at the door, but stilled his motion. He turned back to look at Holmes.

“Let me break the news to them about Selden,” he said. John had wondered how best to tell the Barrymores; although they might feel relieved to be free of him, Mrs. Barrymore seemed to still harbor some sentiment towards her half-brother, and John did not look forward to the task of bearing the somber news. Looking over now to Holmes, John saw that he seemed little disappointed--perhaps Holmes enjoyed a dramatic reveal as much as Sherlock did--yet he nodded once in deference.

John turned back to the door, about to knock, when it opened before him, Barrymore’s dark brown face looking down at him with concern. His eyes flicked over to Holmes but returned to John.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Hello, Barrymore. This is Sherlock Holmes.”

Barrymore bowed, and stepped aside to admit them into the house.

“Tell me, where are Sir Henry and Mrs. Barrymore at the moment?” John asked, scanning the foyer as he stepped inside. Barrymore closed the great door and locked it carefully before answering.

“Sir Henry is in the library, and Mrs. Barrymore is in the kitchen, Doctor.”

Nodding, John took a step closer to Barrymore and met his eyes. “I’ve some news, Barrymore, and though it may be for the best, it, erm--” He cleared his throat. “--it may still be a heavy report to give to your wife. Holmes and I found Mr. Selden this evening, dead.”

Barrymore stood straight and still, but John saw the slight lowering of his shoulders, the long inhale, and the slow blink of his eyelids. It looked like relief.

“He’d been chased, we think, and he ran over a cliff and fell. Broke his neck. Death would have been instantaneous. The constable will take custody of the body in the morning.”

Letting out a slow breath, Barrymore met John’s gaze, and John saw the weight lifting from him, the relief flooding into his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

No longer giving a damn about convention, John grasped Barrymore’s upper arm and squeezed.

“Thank you, Barrymore, for keeping Sir Henry safe.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the butler answered warmly. His eyes flicked over to the left, where the kitchen lay. John gave his arm a final pat and stepped away, ready to let Barrymore go tell his wife the news, but Holmes took a small step forward and spoke.

“I apologize for delaying you, Mr. Barrymore, but I wonder if I might inquire whether Mr. Jack Stapleton has been to call today?”

Barrymore’s brows lifted. “Yes, sir. He came round for tea.”

“With Miss Beryl?”

“Alone, sir.”

“And did he happen to extend an invitation for Sir Henry to visit Merripit House soon?”

“Indeed, sir. Tomorrow evening.”

Holmes smiled, and John saw the familiar spark light up his eyes. “Thank you, Barrymore.”

Barrymore looked over to John, who nodded. He then bowed to Holmes and walked off towards the far end of the house.

John turned to Holmes.

“So. Stapleton.”

Holmes beamed at him. “Yes. Stapleton.”

“He’s always rubbed me up the wrong way, but I’m thinking you’ve decided he’s a suspect.”

“ _The_ suspect, Watson. But we mustn’t tell Sir Henry.”

John scrunched his face up in disapproval. “Holmes!” Henry deserved to know that his neighbor was after him.

“Oh, you know Henry, Watson--Stapleton would discern his fear in a moment, and we’d lose our advantage! No. Henry must go to dinner tomorrow night at Merripit House, without suspicion.”

A thought nagged at John, and he narrowed his eyes at Holmes. “And what will _we_ be doing, while Henry’s in the lion’s den?”

“Following him home.”

“Because?”

“Because we need to be there when Stapleton sets the hound on him, of course.”

Eyes widening, John spun away on his heel. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself, lifting a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my God!”

He pivoted back to face Holmes, waving his hand at him. “You want to . . . use Henry . . . as _bait_?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s already terrified of the hound, and you want to place him directly in its path!”

“It’s the most efficient way to end this business, and the best way to catch Stapleton in the act,” Holmes explained, his brow knit in irritation as though he could not fathom how John could find fault with his plan. He brought his hands together with a clap. “Now. Let us find Sir Henry.”

Holmes started off down the hallway to the right, and after a moment, John shook his head, huffed out a breath, and followed him.

* * *

John spent the rest of the evening in a dissatisfied fog. Tired of chasing escaped madmen, of hunting phantom evil hounds, of maintaining the fiction that he belonged in this era, John simply tried to make it through dinner without any further drama, and longed for the opportunity of a private moment to try and reach Sherlock again. Having heard nothing from him for hours, John filled in the blank spaces with concern.

Though he had thought the moment would never come, it seemed that things were wrapping up for the evening, Holmes explaining how he and John needed to return to London in the morning, Henry nodding with reluctant acceptance as they climbed the stairs together. John hung back, only half-hearing their conversation about some portraits on the wall as he chafed at the bit to return to his room.

Finally, Henry said goodnight, and Holmes and John walked side by side towards John’s room.

“Barrymore’s given me the room next to yours; I shall tap at the adjoining door in a few minutes for you to admit me,” Holmes said, his hand already on the doorknob of his own bedroom.

John nodded, not even asking why Holmes wanted to be let in, and he turned and disappeared into his own room, closing the door behind him. He went directly to sit at the writing desk, pulling out the little brown journal from where he’d tucked it inside his waistcoat. With a deep breath, he turned to the most recently used page.

Re-reading his last lines to Sherlock, he wondered if he had been too harsh. If Sherlock felt even a fraction of what John felt for him, would it be a stretch to view John’s actions with Holmes as some sort of betrayal? However unspoken the bond was between them, John knew Sherlock cared for him, relied on him. Perhaps even loved him. Was it that much of a leap to imagine that Sherlock’s feelings had taken a turn for the romantic as well? In which case, his last message began to seem petty. Mean, even.

_Sherlock. Are you there?_

Relived beyond measure, John dispensed with any pretense and wrote immediately what he felt.

_I want to apologize. That last bit was a shit thing to say. I’m sorry._

**But not untrue, I suspect.**

_No, not entirely untrue,_ thought John. If anything was going to happen between them, John would have to do all the heavy lifting, he knew, and so he chose to own up to everything. He wrote: _Most of it was true. Except the part about things being all sorted._

**And is Holmes with you now? I’d like to know if I’m on the Victorian equivalent of speaker phone.**

_No. He’s in the bedroom next door._

**I thought you two would be joined at the hip now that you’ve reunited.**

_It’s not like that._

When no immediate response appeared, John forced himself to wait. _Give him room,_ he thought, _this is even more difficult for him than it is for you, this sort of stuff._ The tip of his pencil hovered a hair’s breadth from the page.

**What is it like, then?**

Surprise, but also a sort of giddiness rushed into John. Sherlock was giving him a chance to explain, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t take it.

At the same moment, there came a rap upon the door that joined the two bedrooms.

“Really?” John said out loud, glaring at the door. He let out a sigh, and then wrote in the journal.

_I want to tell you, but Holmes is coming back. Will you stay close? I’ll tell you as soon as I can._

Another tap at the door, and John was throwing daggers with his eyes. He wrote hastily, S _herlock, will you wait for me?_

**Yes.**

_All right, I’m going to turn to a blank page and let him in._

Reluctantly, John left the journal and strode over to the door, pulling it open. Seeing the reproach on Holmes’ face for having to wait so long, John held up a hand to stymie any complaint. “Sherlock wrote back.”

Wasting no time, John returned to the desk, Holmes right as his heels. John sat down to write.

“Is Watson with him?” Holmes asked, leaning eagerly over John’s shoulder.

_Holmes wants to know if Watson’s there._

**He is. Mrs. Hudson had lured him away with biscuits, but he’s back now. Still refuses to write, however.**

Holmes glowered at the page, and John wrote. _Perhaps Holmes could write something to him._

Now Holmes glowered at John. “If he is going to be so childish as to withhold communication, then I am--”

“Going to be equally childish?” John asked, raising his eyebrows at Holmes in expectation. “Because we are at an impasse, Holmes. According to our best theory, we’re stuck where and when we are until Watson writes on my--in my ‘journal’.”

John stood, forcing Holmes backwards a step. Pointing to the chair, John commanded. “So you’re going to sit there and apologize. Grovel. Woo. Whatever it takes.”

Holmes frowned, but sat anyway. He took up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell, but paused, everything from his features to the way he held the pen expressing his distress.

“This is not, generally, my area of expertise.”

John softened to hear such a confession, and he made his voice kinder. “It’s always good to start by saying you miss him.”

Holmes gave a small smile, half-gratitude, half-reluctance, and put pen to paper.

_My Dear Watson,_

_Though this curious adventure the Drs. Watson has been, in many ways, fascinating, engaging all my faculties and senses, I should be very glad, my friend, if you could see your way back to me._

**Watson wants to know, “Why?”**

**And I want to know, what do you mean, “all” your “senses”?**

Holmes huffed in irritation. “This is intolerable. They’re both interrogating me now.”

“Come on, Holmes. You want him back, and he wants to make you suffer a bit before he agrees.”

“And what about your Sherlock? Why does _he_ want to make me suffer?”

John shifted his eyes away. “Don’t worry about that right now.”

Narrowing his eyes, Holmes pointed a slim finger at John. “This is because of your unkind comment to him earlier. You’ve wounded him, and now I’m to pay the price as well.”

“Just get on with it,” John prompted, waving a hand at the journal.

Holmes frowned at him, but dipped the nib once more and resumed writing.

_Whatever inconsequential dalliance the Watson of the future and I engaged in was born of those devilish twins, curiosity and sentiment. Once I discovered the charade and the future Watson convinced me of the truth, I’m afraid we were both overtaken by a bittersweet melancholy. I admit, Watson, I felt a sense of hopelessness in that moment, that I might never see you again. My actions were a misguided attempt to recreate what I felt was lost to me, but the experiment failed, as I should have deduced it would. No one could ever replace your central position in my life, and this imposter’s glow is but the dim flicker of candlelight compared to the sunrays wrought by your warmth and constancy._

Holmes set down the pen. Reclining in the chair, he looked up to John, crossing his arms and lifting his chin.

“Brilliant,” John said, giving a little shrug and marveling at what Holmes had written. “You’re loads better at this than Sherlock.”

Holmes pushed out his lips as if to say it was nothing.

“Though apparently I’m ‘dim’, so . . . thanks for that.”

“You did say to ‘woo’ him.”

John nodded. “Do you think it worked?”

Frowning at the lack of response on the page, Holmes began to stand, relinquishing the seat to John. “Perhaps you’d better continue from here.”

John picked up the pencil. _Still there, Sherlock?_

**Yes. Watson has asked me not to convey his response.**

“Ah, but that means there was a response to convey,” Holmes said, hope in his voice.

**Suffice it to say, I think we’ve made as much progress as we’re going to make on this front for the evening.**

John smiled up at Holmes. “Which means you’ve made progress.”

Holmes beamed, but then his smile turned knowing. “And in more ways than one, Watson. Just before we bid Sir Henry goodnight, I made a discovery that will seal up the case here quite neatly--in fact, that’s why I came to fetch you! You must come with me into the hall near the lower staircase at once!”

“But the journal--”

“Best not to press our luck; if I know my Watson, he’s going to make me wait a short time longer for my forgiveness. Come, my good fellow! The game is afoot!”

Filled with consternation, John watched Holmes step quietly over to the front door of John’s room and grab the lit candle on the small table there. Holmes waved his hand impatiently, and John looked back at the journal with longing.

“But . . .”

“Come, Watson!”

Even as he stood from the chair, John hurriedly scribbled out a crooked note on the page.

_case stuff bbl wait 4 me_

And he went over to Holmes, following him into the hall.

* * *

The hallway was quiet, Henry having retired to his room nearly half an hour earlier. Holmes padded over to the portrait which hung on the wall just to the right of the upper landing. John followed, but Holmes held up a hand to halt him.

“It is better viewed at a distance,” Holmes said, indicating the railing about five feet away from the wall. John, not caring even a little bit about the case right now and wishing only to continue his private conversation with Sherlock, frowned and walked over towards the railing with a little huff of irritation.

When he turned around, it was to see Holmes climbing up onto the long, low table that had previously been several feet to the left. He stood tall upon it, lifting his candle up to the face in the portrait. He looked over to John expectantly.

John saw . . . nothing. An old portrait of an old man with a hard expression and a ridiculous wig of flowing white curls. He shrugged and shook his head a little at Holmes.

Drawing down his brows in disappointment, Holmes moved one arm to curve around the head, blocking the wig and isolating the face.

“Do you see, Watson?” Holmes whispered.

It was the face of Jack Stapleton.

Jaw dropping, John was about to launch a volley of questions, his finger pointing up to the portrait, but Holmes pressed a finger to his own lips to silence John. Delight spreading over his features, Holmes jumped down from the table and pushed it back into its place, and then waved a hand to John to follow him back to their rooms.

Once they were safely inside John’s room, John let his questions fly in a rush of whispers.

“That’s Stapleton! How is that Stapleton? Who is that a portrait of?”

“That,” Holmes said softly, pausing for effect, “is a portrait of the late Hugo Baskerville.”

“The one who kidnapped that woman and was killed by the hound all those years ago? The one who brought the curse on the Baskerville family?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “It’s not a ‘curse’, but yes, that man.”

“Why does Jack Stapleton have Hugo Baskerville’s face?”

Merriment sparkled in Holmes’ eyes as he waited for John to figure it out. Realization rolled through John like a peal of thunder, and he became very still.

“You see, Watson?”

“Stapleton is a Baskerville.”

“Roger Baskerville, to be exact. Charles Baskerville’s brother, and Henry’s uncle.”

“Not dead.”

“No.”

“Not lost in South America.”

“No,” Holmes said, his voice joyful.

“And since he and Henry are the last remaining Baskervilles, Beryl Stapleton is not Jack--Roger’s--sister.”

“No.”

“So. That simplifies things. Roger wants the money, the title, the house. Charles and Henry are in the way.”

“Exactly. Roger, in order to disguise his identity and his motive, concocts the story that he is killed while speculating on an emerald mine in Argentina. He then changes his name, invents a new family by presenting a woman as his sister, and moves into a home only two miles from Baskerville Hall.”

“Do you think Beryl--or whatever her name is--is in on it?”

“She would have to be, to some extent, but we don’t have enough data to know if she is aware of Roger’s murderous intentions. You’ve met her, Watson. What were your impressions?”

“Well, she’s concerned for Henry’s safety, and Henry’s half in love with her. She’s intelligent, but something about Roger sets her on edge. She almost seems frightened of him, yet she’s kind of defiant, as well.”

“It may be that she is an unwilling participant in this deadly scheme.”

John paused, remembering more details of his conversation with Beryl. “Oh! Something was off about her accent.”

Holmes grabbed John at the elbows, his eyes zeroing in on John’s. “What? How so?”

“I have no idea; it just . . . sounded off here and there.”

Holmes released him, disappointed. “Well, no matter. I cannot expect you to be as versed in the nuances of dialect as I am though it is a pity you are ignorant in this respect, as it would have been a tidy thing to have confirmation of my suspicion.”

Used to ignoring unintentional slights, John moved on. “What suspicion?”

“That Beryl Stapleton is an émigrée from Argentina.”

 _Christ. I really am trapped in some gothic romance novel,_ John thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. At this point John wanted just to be done with the lot of them. “What do we do now?”

“The plan remains, in essence, the same.  We shall make as if to leave for London by the noon train. You shall leave your belongings here as a pledge to return the following day. Henry will convey our ‘absence’ to the Stapletons at dinner and Roger will believe he has but this one opportunity to enact his horrible plan. Meanwhile, we will remain in hiding on the moor, following Henry on his way home to prevent the murder and capture the scoundrel.”

Remembering so many instances of Sherlock’s similar excitement at casting the net, John smiled at Holmes, at his giddiness. “It’s an excellent plan, Holmes.” John actually believed it was a terrible plan--really, it could south in at least six ways--but sentiment made him fond.

“Goodnight, then, Watson. Tomorrow we shall have our resolution.”

“In more ways than one, I hope,” John said, reminded of Holmes’ assertion that his Watson needed a night to mull over Holmes’ apology.

Holmes paused, his hand on the adjoining door, and a bittersweet look crossed his face. “As do I, Watson. Goodnight.”

Holmes slipped through the door to his own room, closing it behind him. Wanting privacy above all else now, John turned the lock, then walked over to the main door and locked it as well. Room secured, he went to the table and lit the oil lamp, adjusting the wick until it ceased to smoke. He collected lamp, journal, and pencil and set them carefully on the nightstand next to the bed and then sat upon the edge of the mattress. His plan coalesced almost subconsciously, and though he could not see where the path would lead, he somehow knew he must forge ahead. The moment had come for truths and revelations, and he would not waste it. He picked up the pencil and wrote.

_Are you there, Sherlock?_

The answer came immediately. **Yes.**

_Alone?_

**Yes.**

Taking a deep breath, John committed. _I’m going to get undressed and slide into this enormous bed and then answer all of your questions._

After a moment, Sherlock’s response seeped into the paper, the emphasis clear.   ** _All_ of them?**

With firm, deliberate strokes of the pencil, John wrote his answer.

  _Yes_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous and many yaks to Armada for beta help! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10.** _In Which Layers are Shed and Truths are Revealed._

 

John set the journal on the bed near the headboard and stood, undressing calmly, almost meditatively, feeling every movement of his fingers, the way the buttons slipped through their holes, the slide of fabric over his skin. He lay each garment on the chair next to the nightstand, building a tidy pile from the elements of his costume, his disguise, with each discarded layer revealing more of his body. Finally nude, John’s skin pebbled into gooseflesh, the cool air of the room washing over him, and he felt more alive, more himself, than he had in what seemed like ages. He tunneled under the bedcovers, letting the goose down duvet wrap him in warmth as he arranged himself, belly down, pillow beneath his chest so he could write comfortably. He took up the pencil once more.

 _I’m ready_ , he wrote.

 **What is it like, then?** Sherlock asked, repeating his earlier question.

_I’m not, “smitten” with him, or whatever. I’ve kissed him three times, and it’s been strange each time. The one from today is the only one worth talking about, the only real kiss. And even then, it wasn’t exactly real._

As soon as he finished writing out the sentence, John could easily picture Sherlock rolling his eyes in exasperation.

_I know, hang on, I’ll explain. It was real because we both knew who we really were and we made a choice to kiss. It was not real because we were both imagining the person we would rather be kissing as we kissed._

John paused. Even though Sherlock was the great detective, the revelation of emotions often threw him into perplexed silence. After a few moments ticked by, John clarified.

_Holmes was imagining kissing his Watson._

Tick. Tick.

_And I was imagining kissing you._

The truth sat on the page, stark and undeniable, and John stared hard at the paper, as though he could will Sherlock to respond, but nothing came.

_I did promise to answer all your questions. If you have any._

**You want to kiss me.**

It wasn’t technically a question, but John thought Sherlock could do with some reassurance and answered anyway.

_Yes, I do._

**For how long?**

_For as long as you me want me to._

**I mean. For how long have you wanted to. Kiss me.**

So glad to have Sherlock interacting rather than retreating, to have these truths opening between them, John held the pillow closer, propping up his chest as he wrote back eagerly.

_I definitely wanted to that first night, at Angelo’s, and in the hallway after chasing the cab. Again, later, when you were talking about getting the powder burns off my hands. But you had been pretty clear at Angelo’s that you weren’t looking for that, and so I--HAPPILY, Sherlock, with NO qualms at all--made a decision not to pursue it. To respect what you said._

**You’re an idiot.**

John glowered at the page.

**I’m an idiot.**

_Oh_ , thought John, his heartbeat picking up at the implication of those words, at what Sherlock might be admitting, but he knew asking directly might scare him off. Instead, John was reminded of another time, not so long ago, when the urge to kiss Sherlock had nearly overtaken him.

_Do you remember, in the hallway? After. . . the incident at the pool?_

**I remember.**

_I was so close to doing it, then, there. You were looking at me, like you couldn’t believe I was real, like you couldn’t believe I was there, and your hands were so frantic, gripping my shoulders so hard. I can’t even remember what I was doing with my own hands, I was so focused on your eyes. And your lips. I wanted to kiss you, then. So much. I thought we might, too, I really thought it was about to happen, but . . . Mrs. Hudson should be made to wear a bell around her neck. But, just before that, all I wanted in the world was to kiss you. I think you wanted that, too._

**You had one hand over my heart. The other was under my jacket, clutching my shirt at the small of my back.**

John pictured it in his mind, remembered the rapid thump of Sherlock’s heart beneath his palm, the heat of Sherlock’s skin transferring easily through the silk of his shirt to John’s hand. He remembered how hard it was to breathe properly, though they didn’t have the excuse of having run across rooftops this time, and yet they both pulled in ragged breaths, and stared and stared.

**If we _had_ kissed, what then?**

_Then, Mrs. Hudson probably would have gotten quite the eyeful, because I don’t think we would have made it up the stairs before things . . . progressed._

**Progressed how?**

John’s mind began to supply images of exactly what would have happened, and his brain short-circuited for a moment.

_Uh, quickly?_

**Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you’d go deeper.**

John’s eyes widened and he huffed out a laugh, a fluttery feeling twirling in his belly. Was Sherlock asking for . . . details? _Sexual_ details of how exactly John would have seduced him? It sounded like it. In fact, it sounded like a challenge--one that John did not hesitate to meet.

_Ask me what I would have done._

**What would you have done, John?**

_Everything. Anything you wanted._

The next questions queued up in his mind, jostling in their desire to be written: _Did you want me to? Would you have?_ But John held back, knowing it was too soon, too direct for Sherlock to confess yet, despite John laying out truth after truth. No, Sherlock would need more persuasion, more wooing to be convinced. The man had wall after wall of protection built around him; but John had scaled more than a few of them. He could this one as well.

_I think I would have been the one to start. Yeah. I would have leaned in, probably pulled you down by the neck, you’re so tall, and just done it. Kissed you. I think you would have been surprised for a moment, but just a moment, and then something would click for you._

John paused, giving Sherlock a chance to respond.

**Would it?**

John grinned. _Feeling playful, I see,_ he thought, and he grinned at the paper as he continued his wooing.

_Yeah, I think it would. The adrenaline high, the urge to live life to the fullest after having just faced death--_

_And sentiment. Not your favorite thing, I know, but it’s a factor for me, I’ll tell you._

**I don’t see the _benefit_ of sentiment. I don’t deny it _exists_.**

John filed away that admission for later.

_We must also consider the factor that I am an excellent kisser._

**Hard to prove or disprove at the moment, John.**

_If you let me, if you want me to, I’ll prove it over and over. Because your lips were made to be kissed, Sherlock._

Waiting for Sherlock’s response, John read the sentence over. Warmth was spreading over his skin, the duvet only partly to blame, and heat pooled in his groin as he imagined Sherlock on the other side of time, pictured him considering what John had just written.

**So tell me. How you would have done it. You’re a writer, of sorts. Make me feel it.**

The challenge was a physical thing, cresting over his body. Damn, but Sherlock knew him--the real him, the him that would eagerly take Sherlock on. Another wave of giddy desire washed over him, his skin prickling from the slide of the sheets he had cocooned himself in. _Yeah_ , he thought. _I’ll make you feel it._ He abandoned embarrassment, hesitation, fear, throwing them onto the chair with the other layers he'd shed, and then pressed graphite to paper.

_Your eyes were intense, staring into mine so hard I thought you’d deduce everything in that moment, catalog all the times I’d talked myself out of pursuing you. And in the moment, with my hands on you, your hands on me, I wanted you to.  I wanted you to see how much I desired you._

_I think I’d start by letting my gaze drop, zero in on your clever, gorgeous mouth. I’d run my eyes over the peaks and valleys of your upper lip, let you feel it like a caress. I’d stare at your full bottom lip, looking so ready to be taken between my lips, my teeth._

_Because I don’t imagine it would be gentle between us, Sherlock. No. We’d be urgent and eager. We’d leap without looking. All you’d have to do is move towards me, or just even part those god damn lips, just a little, just slightly, and I’d be on you. I’d invade you. Hands in your hair, on your arse, gripping, pulling you closer._

_The kiss would be electric, sparks and jolts each time our lips came together. I’d press into your mouth with my tongue, learning what you like, and God, Sherlock, you’d be so perfect, so responsive, reacting to every touch._

_I bet you’d figure out in no time what drives me wild. You’d find every strange little erogenous zone of mine, every dark little kink that I think I’m so good at hiding. I wouldn’t say a word. I’d want you exploring, experimenting, looking for clues in sighs and twitches, the way my breath catches, the tightening of my jaw, the timbre of my moans._

_And I I’d want to take my time. I’d want all the time in the world. One kiss, one night, could never be enough. I’d want to have every sort of kiss, fast, slow, casual, fiery. We’d have sex in every way possible--calm and lazy, naked and buried under the sheets of your bed; warm and languid before the fireplace, besmirching the rug between the armchairs; fast and rough, bent over the kitchen table, both of us still mostly dressed in our desperation._

_You’ve never known me like this, never seen me like this. Maybe no one has. Because with you, it would be something new, like discovering a new alloy, stronger and brighter than either of us would be alone. We’d blend and meld into something brilliant, something amazing._

_And it would all begin with that first kiss._

John, still laying on his belly, set the pencil down a moment, overtaken by the images he’d built in his head. His interlaced his fingers at his nape, and, almost without conscious thought, pressed down against the mattress with his hips, his body seeking heat and friction. He needed to get back to Sherlock, and soon.

He looked up again to see fresh words on the page.

**You need to come home.**

John smiled and picked up the pencil to write again.

_Good deduction, that._

He smiled, and warmth enveloped him as he wondered how far Sherlock was willing to go with this conversation.

**Watson was softening after he read Holmes’ entreaty. If I show him this, he may finally consent to write on your blog.**

The warm feelings ebbed. _Hang on, what?_

**If he sees how much you and I**

_‘You and I’ what?_

There was a long pause, and John felt Sherlock’s reticence through the page. _It’s okay. We don’t have to go into it, or label it, or whatever. Once I’m home, once I can see you, it will all be fine._

**My strategies with Watson so far have been less than successful. I’ve tried reasoning with him (an unsurprising failure). Berating him (he seemed strangely immune). I’ve tried flattery. Flirting. All to no effect.**

_You flirted with Past Me?_

**He’s not you. And yes, for all the good it did. The only thing that has swayed him is Holmes’ apology and regard for him, and if I emphasize that, and argue that his stubbornness is also keeping me and you from**

**Keeping you from me**

**Maybe he will, out of sympathy, concede.**

Though part of John wanted to pick apart the implication of those words, he focused on the plan.

 _That might work, actually. Holmes is quite soppy over Watson_.

 **_Soppy_ ** **? An ancestor of _mine_? Are you sure?**

_Those two are utterly, completely in love with each other. Watson’s just being . . . Watsonly._

**Stubborn?**

_Steadfast._

**Mulish.**

_Determined._

**Pig-headed beyond reason because of some perceived slight. Is that what I have to look forward to from you?**

_Among other things._

A long pause stretched out between them, and John wondered if he had pushed too hard, gone too far. Sherlock’s response finally came, but it was a slow, truncated line.

**In the interest of fairness, I must confess**

Another pause, and John rushed to reassure him. _You don’t have to tell me anything, or do anything you aren’t ready to. I would never want to push you where you don’t want to go._

**You haven’t.**

**You couldn’t.**

John stared hard at the last line. “Couldn’t”, because Sherlock wouldn’t let him? Or because there was nowhere John could take him that he didn’t want to go? John yearned to know more, but something told him this was good, this was so much more than he expected, and it was time to let Sherlock settle in with these ideas; for all they seemed welcome, they were still new, and giving him time to turn them over, examine them in that great big brain of his, seemed a good plan.

 _That’s good to know,_ John wrote. _I’m eager to see what the morning brings us. Hoping, foremost, that Past Me misses Past You enough to get his head out of his arse and swap us back where we belong._

**As am I.**

Moments ticked by, John waiting for Sherlock to choose his next move. When the next words appeared, he was not surprised.

**Goodnight, John.**

John smiled at the page.

_Goodnight, Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, dear readers, and thank you to my Armada and Jude for helping me get the tone the way I wanted it in this bit. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11.** _In Which Emotions are Engendered and Enumerated, Sherlock Makes a Shopping List, and the Timing is Inconvenient, to Say Nothing of the Dog._

 

Holmes and Sherlock shared yet another trait, John had realized--both were loathe to communicate their full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfillment. This was due to both caution and a certain tendency toward the dramatic, and John had suffered under it many times. In this case, however, John had decided to include Barrymore in their scheme; the butler had more than proven himself trustworthy and useful in a tight spot, and though John thrilled to be on the path to adventure once more, chasing down a criminal at Holmes' side, he also knew they could do with a bit of backup.

And so, John woke early the next morning. After checking the journal and seeing that no more writing had appeared, he washed up and dressed quickly--well, as quickly as his seventeen items of clothing allowed him to--and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Baskerville Hall was less formidable in the early hours; the morning light that streamed through the windows illuminated the large foyer, alleviating the cold, eerie ambience John usually felt in the hall.

He found the Barrymores and the other staff in the kitchen, sitting round the servants' table. Many of them startled to see him, but Barrymore simply rose to standing.

"A word?" John asked.

Barrymore nodded, and the two men stepped out the back door, leaving the warmth of the kitchen behind for the privacy of the herb garden outside. It was cold enough that their breath was visible, white puffs punctuating the space between them as they spoke amid rosemary and thyme.

"Mr. Holmes and I have a plan to catch the man that wants Sir Henry dead, and we'd like your help, if you're willing to give it," John began.

"Then you shall have it," Barrymore answered without hesitation.

John admired his devotion to Henry, but felt he should be clear. "It involves the hound as well. There will be more than your fair share of danger, I expect."

At that, John could swear he saw a smile cross Barrymore's lips.

"How can I be of service?" the butler asked.

John grinned back at him and began to lay out the particulars.

* * *

With Barrymore on board, the plan proceeded smooth as silk, with John and Holmes saying their goodbyes to Sir Henry after lunch. John had left his belongings as they were in his room, as he and Holmes both vowed to return the next day. The three of them stood in the driveway in front of the great house, Barrymore nearby with the carriage fully readied.

Holmes turned to Sir Henry, who was looking a bit worried. "Lestrade is one of Scotland Yard's least irritating--"

"Most qualified," said John.

"--detectives. We'll return with reinforcements and set this thing to rights, Sir Henry," Holmes assured him, clapping him on the back.  "Meanwhile, try to enjoy your dinner with the Stapletons. We must treasure the friends and good fortune Fate bestows upon us."

John gave Holmes a crooked look, his dubiousness threatening to overtake his features.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, quite right," Henry replied, voice over-loud and cheerful, as though he sought to reassure himself as well.

"Until tomorrow," Holmes said, and then he turned on his heel and stepped into the carriage. John was left to give a quick nod and then climb up himself, settling into his seat next to Holmes.  Barrymore, already seated, had arranged to drive them himself to the train station--but, of course, they were not going to the train station at all.

* * *

Barrymore guided the black mares down the yew alley only far enough that they were surely out of sight of the Hall. He tugged at the reins, pulling them to a stop right before the moor-gate. Laden with blankets and food, John and Holmes snuck out onto the moor, and they picked their way back to the hut Holmes had hidden in previously.

"No fires today, Watson," Holmes said as they entered the hut and began unpacking. "Now that Mr. Selden's met his end, we can't risk that Miss Stapleton will see smoke and succumb to the urge to investigate."

"I've hunkered down in worse spots," John said, settling himself on the now familiar cot and spreading out cheese, bread, and ham.

Holmes smiled down at him. "As have I."

Using the knife they'd brought along, John made a large, rustic sandwich and cut it in half, waiting until Holmes sat down beside him to hand over his portion. They ate quietly for a few minutes, seemingly content to eat in silence, but John saw Holmes' eyes flick over to John's coat pocket more than once.

John fixed him with a look. "What is it?"

"Nothing at all," Holmes said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Smiling, John shook his head. "Out with it, then."

"You said there's been no communication in the journal since last night."

"Right."

"Have you . . . initiated any?"

_Ah_ , thought John. Holmes was clearly eager to see if Watson had any message for him. "Holmes. Would you like me to write and see if Sherlock answers?"

Looking away, Holmes pursed out his lips and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "If you like."

John smiled and reached into his pocket, extracting the journal and opening it to a fresh page.

_Sherlock, you there?_ he began.

**Here.**

The word appeared nearly instantly, and John's heartbeat quickened. He was beginning to have a Pavlovian response to Sherlock's handwriting--and not one he wanted to reveal while in Holmes' company, no matter how similar he and Sherlock were.

_Holmes and I are in the hut again on the moor. Waiting for dark. Henry will dine with Stapletons and we will follow him home, use him as bait. Catch Stapleton in the act. Probably the hound as well._

**That's a terrible plan.**

_Well, it's a Holmesian one._ John imagined Sherlock might have a biting response to that, so he continued writing without pausing. _Is Watson with you?_

**He's gone for a walk in Regents Park. He didn't come down from his room until late this morning and has been quiet since.**

Holmes frowned at the page, and without a word he abandoned his sandwich on the blanket next to John, standing up to walk over to the doorway of the stone hut.

John's eyes followed him. "Holmes?"

But the detective did not respond. He reached into the pockets of his coat, pulling out his pipe and tobacco bag, and then stepped outside.

John's attention returned to the journal.

_Holmes a bit upset. Gone outside to smoke._

**Understandable**.

_So, Watson was unmoved, then?_

**I wouldn't say unmoved. I showed him the pages this morning and he got a bit wistful, but wouldn't say much. I think he's close to doing it. I've been attempting to give him "space."**

Though the situation seemed bleak, John mustered his optimism. _That's good, Sherlock. That's good._

**Reassuring me or yourself?**

_Let's say both. Regardless, it won't be long, I'd wager._ The words lingered in his mind, engendering questions, images. Not long until what? Until they were together again? And then what? Then what?

**I read over what we**

**What you wrote. Last night.**

**And I felt like I didn't . . . reciprocate sufficiently.**

_You don't have to--_

**I know I don't have to; stop interrupting.**

John chuckled softly. _Okay._

**So, last night, I thought about what I could do. Say.  I read your words over and over as I lay in bed, picturing all the things you'd described. I felt as though you were there with me, that it was your breath I could hear, so loud and fast, when it was, in fact, my own, made so by the thoughts you'd set free in my mind.**

_Oh_ , John thought, his head filled with the image of Sherlock in bed, breathing heavily because of what John had written. Was Sherlock saying that he . . . that he had . . .

**I couldn't stop myself--or, more accurately, I didn't _want_ to stop myself from continuing. I imagined it was your hands along my body rather than my own, caressing and stroking me, causing the tremors of pleasure that shot through me. I fantasised that you held me close, that it was your touch making me gasp. I pictured you swallowing down my moans with your kiss. **

_Oh, God,_ thought John, covering his mouth to suppress the groan that nearly escaped him. His lips, the skin of his face felt warm beneath his fingers, and he was certain he was blushing.

**This was my last thought before sleep, my first thought upon waking.**

**I expect this will all get much worse when I have reality to compare to fantasy. I used to believe there was no possible way for your actual attentions to match what I could come up with in my mind--but last night proved me wrong. You are a constant surprise.**

Sherlock, admitting so much, showing such attraction and affection--John felt the need to rub at his eyes with his fingertips.

**You may speak now.**

_Not sure I can, actually._

**Meaning?**

_You're a constant surprise to me, too, you know. You've got me full of emotions now, and I'm trying to pull myself together._

**Which emotions exactly?**

John smiled at the question, so direct, so like Sherlock to need details-- _data, John, data!_ \--especially about something involving sentiment and feelings-- _not good?_ \--and so John answered his question just as directly.

_Exactly,--_

_Desire._

_And love._

John looked at the letters upon the page and knew their truth, could feel the rightness of having written them, and now that Sherlock had shared his fantasy as well, it seemed natural to declare it, to call it was it was.

**Inconvenient.**

John huffed out a miserable laugh. _Agreed. Why couldn't we have figured this out last week, when you had no case on and we were both cooped up in the flat because of the rain? We'd have had loads of time, ages of time. I would have filled the hours with touching you._

**There's a storm coming in from the north tonight, a big one. Rain, wind, lightning. They say it will last for days.**

_Sounds like the perfect time for me to come home._

**I'll stock up.**

John scrunched up his nose, doubting Sherlock's ability to shop in any practical manner. _On what, exactly?_

**I don't know. Candles. Biscuits. Condoms.**

His breath catching at the images of how those condoms might be put to use, John scratched out a reply.

_Brilliant._

**How long until you and Holmes scurry off to follow Henry home?**

_Probably around seven, so a while to go yet._

**You've got your gun?**

_Well, I've got Watson's revolver, and Barrymore's got a rifle._

_How long until Watson comes back, do you think?_

**I have trouble deducing him.**

_Ah, well. We'll both be doing a bit of waiting and seeing then._

A moment passed, and though the silence didn't scare him, exactly, still he felt the need for a bit of reassurance.

_Stay close?_

**Of course.**

* * *

Holmes came in after a long while, stowing away his pipe and settling on the cot to eat his half of the sandwich in silence. John let him be, knowing Holmes would speak when he wanted to, and not a moment before. He arranged one of the blankets like a pillow and propped himself up in the corner, half-napping, half-day dreaming about aquamarine eyes and long, slender fingers.

When he awoke, the sun was setting, and he blinked against the red-orange light that filled the room. He looked over to see Holmes perusing the journal, his eyes moving over the pages intently.

"Anything new?" John asked, moving to sit up straighter.

"No," Holmes said, and then fell into silence once more.

John stretched his neck until in cracked, and then re-settled himself to watch Holmes read, giving up on any Holmes in any universe respecting his privacy. Based on how Holmes' eyebrow climbed steadily upward, John guessed he was looking over the passages from the night before.

"Is it really that scandalous?" John asked when Holmes finally set the journal down between them.

"The sentiments themselves are not," Holmes answered, leaning back against the wall. "My surprise stems only from the quickness with which your relationship seems to have developed."

John considered this, his lips pursing. "Yes and no. We have known each other a while now. The attraction was there from the beginning, at least for me."

"And could you have acted upon it then?"

"What d'you mean?"

"In the future, one can be openly, freely homosexual, without fear?"

"Well. There are still bigots. People are still bullied, discriminated against, even beaten or murdered for being queer."

"Queer?"

"Erm. Anyone who feels outside the societal norms of sexual orientation or gender identification."

"I see."

"But it's improved since this time; many people worked very hard, sacrificed a lot, in order to make headway towards equal rights. There are laws in many parts of the world against discrimination and hate crimes based on sexual orientation, and many places allow gay marriage and give domestic partners equal rights as traditional husbands and wives have."

Holmes' eyes went a bit wide. "In England?"

"We're working on it. There are 'civil partnerships' right now, but many politicians argue that's not good enough."

Holmes was quiet a long moment, and then said softly, "If it were possible, I might travel to the future with you, so that I may, in my lifetime, marry my Watson, in front of witnesses and God."

Pressing his lips together in a grim line, John looked down. "I'm rubbish at history, but I know it's very difficult now. If I remember right, I'm afraid it gets worse before it gets better."

"That much I could deduce on my own," Holmes said with a sad smile, "but you'd better not tell me any more--who knows what repercussions it might have on the course of time."

John cocked his head to one side. "To be honest, I don't know what this is, exactly. I mean, are we two branches of time, splitting off at different places along the trunk? Are there multiple Holmes and Watsons throughout time, infinite versions in infinite universes? Or are we related, you know, linearly--ancestors and descendents of each other?"

Holmes grinned and gave a little shrug. "Not enough data, I'm afraid."

Looking out at the darkening sky outside the window, John turned wistful. "I like to think it's the former. That in every universe, there's one of each of us, and we always find each other."

"And every Watson is a romantic," Holmes teased lightly.

"And every Holmes is brilliant," John rejoined, no longer interested in fighting off the emotions that had been assaulting him relentlessly of late. He beamed over to Holmes, who smiled in return.

"Yes, well. In this universe, I think it's time to go, don't you?" Holmes asked, pushing up from the cot to stand.

Glancing at his pocket watch, John nodded. "Yes, definitely." He stood as well, handing the journal over to Holmes while he tugged his clothes back into shape and ran a hand over his hair.

He felt a touch at his arm.

"Watson."

Eyes lasering in on Holmes, John saw the journal in his hand, opened to a page with fresh writing. John scrambled to fetch the pencil while Holmes moved over to the windowsill for more light.

**John. JOHN. Are you there?**

Both John and Holmes huddled over the journal as John replied.

_Yes, here, sorry, was napping._

**Never mind that. I've got Watson here with me.**

Holmes leaned in closer over John's arm.

**He is ready to write something himself, John.**

John stared at the page, and heard Holmes' small intake of breath.

_Now?_ John asked on the page.

**Yes. Are you ready?**

John let out a puff of air, almost as though the wind had been knocked out of him, and he looked over to Holmes, whose own face reflected the same mixture of trepidation and disbelief.

"I know, it's the middle of the case--"

"No, that doesn't matter--"

"If you're not ready--"

"I'm ready. Are you?"

John met Holmes' gaze, sensed his own bittersweet feelings echoing in the icy blue eyes that met his own. Leaving Holmes behind, he knew, was the only way to return to his own Sherlock--and the only way to restore Holmes' own Watson to him. A thorn of regret pricked him, but it could not diminish the surge of hope he felt at the thought of reuniting with his Sherlock.

Nodding, John answered. "I'm ready."

_Yes_ , he wrote. _We both are_.

**I intend to make you pay dearly for the avalanche of sentiment you've caused me, you know.**

_Counting on it._

**All right. Handing the laptop to Watson now.**

Holding the journal up to the last rays of sunlight so that they could both see, John took in a breath and held it.

**My dear Holmes.**

Holmes' hand clutched one side of the journal, and he reached with his other hand for the page, trailing his fingertips along the path of the letters as they appeared.

**I apologize for keeping you so long at such a distance. I don't know how much writing is required to return me to you, but know that I shall do anything in my power to come back to your side, where I belong, where I shall evermore be. Our quarrel was trifling, and I suspect you've more than learned your lesson--just as I suspect I'll have to repeat the lesson in the future. And gladly so. A future filled with days and nights spent at your side would be my greatest hope and privilege.**

**Yours most truly,**

**John H. Watson.**

A smile blooming across his lips, Holmes sniffled beside John, and he unashamedly wiped away a tear that had spilled over onto his cheek.

"You two are so much better at this stuff than we are," John said, feeling a little overcome himself.

"You're just beginning, you and he. Watson and I . . ." Holmes smiled at John. "We're ages ahead of you."

John grinned at the irony of it, but the next words on the page sent a chill through his heart.

**John, that should have worked. Why isn't it working?**

_No. No, no, no,_ John's mind replied, thoughts beginning began to race as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong.  _Maybe it takes time?_ he wrote, trying to calm Sherlock as well as himself. _When it happened last time, I fell asleep at night but woke up here in the morning; hours could have gone by between the time I wrote in the journal and the time we switched._

But both Holmeses were already ahead of him.

"We need more data . . ." Holmes was saying next to him.

**Details, John.**

"What were the exact circumstances before you--"

**Tell me EXACTLY where you were, what you ate, what you were doing before it happened**

In the midst of his rising panic, John marvelled at having two Sherlocks yelling at him at the same time.

"I was ASLEEP!" John cried, sending an exasperated look to Holmes, and then to the page, as though Sherlock could see him.

_I was ASLEEP!_

**No, before that. When you wrote, where were you? In the chair? On the bed? Where?**

_I was in my room, on the bed._

"In Baker Street?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, 221b. My room, upstairs."

"Upstairs? Watson hasn't slept upstairs for ages," Holmes provided, brows drawing down.

**Where was Watson at that time, on that night? Ask Holmes.**

"Except . . ."

"What?" John said, grasping on to the tone in Holmes' voice, the widening of his eyes. "Except what?"

"Watson slept upstairs that night. He was angry with me. Refused to share our bed."

"So, the night that the swap happened--" John began.

"Both you and Watson were, essentially, in the same exact location--"

"In the upstairs bedroom--"

"In 221b Baker Street," they finished together.

**JOHN!**

John looked down at the page as though it had audibly shouted at him. He scribbled hastily, _Sherlock--_

**It's to do with WHERE you were--**

_Yes, we think so, too--_

**It's something to do with that room, with you both being in the same spot at the same time--**

_Like some sort of portal?_

**Yes, yes, exactly! It's not enough to have Watson write on your blog, that's only the _key_.**

"You must both be at the door when the key is turned," Holmes said.

**You must both be in the room when you or he writes in the journal.**

John's eyes darted over to Holmes. "I have to get back to Baker Street."

**You have to get back to Baker Street.**

At that precise moment, however, a low howl sounded over the moor, a startling contrast to the quiet twilight outside the hut. John shuddered involuntarily and looked over to Holmes.

"The next train to London won't be until morning," he said.

Hopes of a swift reunion dashed, John cocked his head. "Then I guess we'd better go catch ourselves a murderer."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous and lucky turtles to Armada for speedy and thorough betawork. <3  
> A few content warnings for this chapter--skip to the end note if you want to be forewarned.

**_Chapter 12._ ** _In Which There Are Hearts and Horrors, Truths and Reckonings._

 

Darkness chasing their heels, Holmes and John made their way over to Merripit House as stealthily as their haste would allow. Hunkering down behind a line of shrubs dotting the slope at the side of the house, they observed the figures inside the well-lit drawing room.

“Nice of them to leave the curtains open,” John said, and he heard Holmes snicker beside him.

Sir Henry and Stapleton--or, more precisely, Roger Baskerville--were sat in armchairs, smoking cigars and holding snifters of amber-colored liquid. Feeling the chill of the moor now that the sun had set, John felt a stab of envy at the thought of a nice brandy right about now.

“Where is Miss Stapleton, I wonder?” Holmes asked, and John scanned the house again. There was no sign of her. In fact, the rest of the house beyond the drawing room seemed deserted.

“You don’t think--”

“Yes, I do think so, Watson. She may have colluded with Stapleton to an extent, but her fondness for Sir Henry has made her a liability, and I have no doubt she will come to harm at Stapleton’s hand.”

John’s eyes focused on the rear of the house. “Back in a jiff.”

* * *

John slipped in the back door quietly and padded through the darkened kitchen to the main hallway. Occasional snippets of conversation floated out from the drawing room, the soft voices barely catching in John’s ear as he crept silently through the back of the house. The old couple Stapleton kept as servants was strangely absent, and John had no trouble accessing the rear staircase to the upper floor.

Once upstairs, he could hear nothing of the noises below. Gun out, John stepped cautiously along the hallway. He paused at one of the doors and listened.

Shuffling. A muffled grunt.

Unsure of what he might encounter, John nonetheless turned the knob and opened the door, using his free hand to strike a match for light, only to see a mountain of white.

The mountain gave a panicked groan.

 _Jesus_. John rushed forward, stowing his gun. He lit the lamp near the side of the bed and began pulling away layer after layer of linens and pillows Stapleton had piled upon the bound and gagged woman he claimed was his sister.

Beryl’s wide hazel eyes looked up at John with a mixture of fear and relief, her long, chestnut hair a riotous mess and her forehead covered with a sheen of perspiration from her exertions to free herself. John reached around the back of her head, untying the white tea towel Stapleton had used to muzzle her.

“Oh, thank God!” Beryl said after taking several restoring breaths. “Dr. Watson, thank God for you!”

“Are you hurt?” John asked, moving to untie the rope at her ankles.

“My pride is wounded, but my body is sound. Doctor, you need to know--”

John fixed her with a stare and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Beryl Stapleton, and the man downstairs is not your brother. He is, in fact, Roger Baskerville.” It was a heady thing, disclosing that he knew the truth, and John understood why the Sherlocks so enjoyed the moment of revelation.

Relief flooded her features, and she inhaled deeply. “Yes! Yes! You must protect Henry!”

“We intend to, Miss . . .” His tone lifted into a question.

“Esmeralda Torres.”

John gave her a nod, but otherwise remained still, and she pulled against the ropes that still bound her hands to the head rail of the bed. “If you could, please, untie me.”

“Well, now, that depends,” John said, crossing his arms. “How am I to know you’re not in collusion with Baskerville?”

“I tried to warn Henry! I tried to tell him to stay away!” she pleaded, and John thought back to the anonymous note, the one he and Holmes looked at together in 221b. _As you value your life or your reason . . ._

“That was you who wrote the note! You were in London!”

“Yes! With Roger.”

Comprehension bloomed in John’s mind, the pieces falling into place. Baskerville had been the man in the cab he and Sherlock had chased, the man with the shrewd eyes and the black--obviously false--beard.

Anger drew down Beryl’s lovely brow. “Do you think I tied myself up here? Roger’s gone mad! I’ve been trying to talk him out of his murderous plan for months, but he’s got power over me that has forced me to keep my silence!”

“And what’s that?”

“My family.” She swallowed and looked down a moment. “He’s got influence in powerful circles back home in Argentina. It would take but one message from him to end my father’s life. It’s how he got me to follow him here, to England, to go along with his diabolical charade.”

John looked her over more carefully in the lamplight, noting a torn fingernail, a scratch along her jaw, the redness at her ankles where the rope had rubbed against her skin. He was inclined to believe her, but still hesitated. “What do you know of Baskerville’s plans for tonight?”

“He intends to follow Henry once he leaves, to set the hound upon him!” Beryl said, begging with her eyes for John to help her.

“Then maybe you’re safer here; Holmes and I will protect Henry.”

She glowered at him, and her voice deepened. “I’ll not be left here, not when Roger intends me harm, and not when I can help Henry.”

John tilted his head. “Help Henry how?”

“I know Roger’s hideout in the mire. I know where he keeps the hound.”

And so it was that John found himself sneaking back down the rear staircase of a country manor with a kidnapped Argentinian woman by his side whilst a murderer and his intended victim sipped brandy in the drawing room.

Even as they carefully trekked back to Holmes, John shook his head, and wondered if he’d be much happier if he just accepted this was the sort of thing that happened to Watsons.

* * *

By the time they’d explained the situation to Holmes, who was less than pleased to have yet another person in their troupe, it looked as though Henry and Stapleton were saying their goodbyes, and it was time to head down the lane to meet up with Barrymore and the constable.

The five of them attempted to hide along the side of the road, which would have been wholly unsuccessful had the fog not decided to lay itself like a blanket upon the road, obscuring their figures. The soupy mist also made it rather difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction.

John remembered Sherlock’s words from earlier-- _That’s a terrible plan_ \--and couldn’t agree more, but at this point, he wanted only to have the entire drama resolved, one way or another, so that he might get his anachronistic arse on a train back to London as soon as possible.

Presently, John’s ears picked up the sound of footsteps, and humming, and after a moment a light shone dimly through the fog. Holmes elbowed him unnecessarily in the ribs, and John pulled out his revolver.

Henry came along the road, alternately singing and humming, a lantern in his hand. His footsteps were uneven, stopping and starting much like his song. He was close enough now that John could see him pause to look behind him, squinting and blinking at the path he’d just tread.

“Drunk?” John whispered over to Holmes.

“Or drugged.”

Henry turned and continued shuffling forward, his voice thin and unsteady in the night air. If the attack didn’t happen soon, their chance would be lost, as any movement they made would certainly alert both Stapleton and the hound. Henry was several paces away from John, and would soon be out of sight, lost in the fog. Already his silhouette was blurred as he advanced. Then, all at once, Henry stopped cold and went silent.

John heard it.

Not a howl, not a rumbling, threatening growl, but the patter of steps along the road, the sound of thickly padded paws trotting forward. He looked over at the direction the sound had come from, along the road behind Sir Henry, and there was a sight no description in a journal could have prepared him for.

A hulking black form of fur and muscle, the hound was enormous, shaped like a mastiff, but bigger than any dog John had ever seen--the top of its shoulders would reach nearly to John’s waist. The massive head was focused completely on Henry, the creature now stalking its prey more like a tiger would, its steps quiet and its center of gravity low, as though preparing to pounce.

But its size, its methods--these were not what stunned John the most. No. The hound--if it was that, and not a beast from hell itself--was luminous. An eerie white-green glow emanated from its body, outlining its shape, its brow, the rings of its eyes. Saliva gathered at its lips, painting the drooping jowls and bared teeth with rivulets of liquid light.

Henry turned to face the beast, and in that instant the hound struck, leaping into the air and hurling itself at the terrified baronet, its weight and massive strength knocking him to the ground immediately.

John surged forward, focusing his revolver on the hound. Barrymore ran to Henry’s aid as well, and tipped his rifle to the sky, firing it upward. The resounding crack would have startled any normal animal, but the hound barely hesitated as he continued to tear at Henry’s heavy coat, attempting to reach the vulnerable flesh beneath his collar.

Only once John was within a few feet of Henry did the dog seem to notice, and he raised his giant head, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl to reveal glistening, glowing teeth.

John took aim and shot the hound, even as it lunged for him. The animal yelped, its body twisting mid-flight and landing on the ground with a tremendous thud. John stood ready to shoot it again, but the last breath left its lungs, and the hound sagged down against the road, dead.

Lowering his weapon, John swallowed and let out his breath. Barrymore was at Henry’s side in an instant.

“Sir Henry. Sir Henry!”

Barrymore had moved Henry over onto his side, but Henry seemed incapable of speech, his eyes wide, his hands curled towards his chest.

“Shit.” John handed his revolver to Barrymore and knelt down beside Henry. He bent over, his face close to Henry’s nose, and his fingers moved to just below Henry’s jaw.

“He’s breathing, but his heart’s stopped,” John said, rolling Henry onto his back. Without one thought to the others, John rubbed his fist vigorously against Henry’s sternum, to no effect, and he quickly rearranged himself at Henry’s side, positioning his hands and arms like a piston over Henry’s upper torso. Using the weight of his upper body to press down forcefully, John began chest compressions, forcing blood to pump through Henry’s body.

Beryl--Esmeralda--cried out, trying to run forward, but Holmes stepped between her and John.

“Let the doctor work, Miss Torres,” Holmes said, “Sir Henry is in the best of hands.”

“Holmes, come check his pulse,” John ordered, entirely focused on administering compressions. Kneeling on the other side of Henry, Holmes slid his fingers to Henry’s wrist. John paused, hovering in place over Henry’s chest as Holmes counted.

“Fast,” Holmes said, “but steady.”

John turned to Barrymore. “We need to get him home.”

“I’ve my wagon, about a mile up the road,” the constable offered, and Barrymore took off at a runner’s pace, disappearing into the fog before the constable could say more. “But--what about Stapleton?”

“He’ll not try again tonight; the hound is dead and there are too many witnesses now,” Holmes reasoned. “He’ll hide on the moor until morning, that’s for certain.”

Her steps cautious, Esmeralda came closer to Henry, her eyes glistening with tears. “How is he, Doctor?”

John looked Henry over. He was breathing, though raggedly, and his heart was beating as though he’d just run a hundred-metre dash, but he was alert. There was no way to ascertain what exactly had happened--the medical tests he would need for a definitive diagnosis would not be invented for decades yet.

“He’ll be all right,” John declared, opting for optimistic vaguery with a side of extreme understatement. “Too much excitement.”

* * *

Once all of them had been ferried back to Baskerville Hall, John had Dr. Mortimer sent for, and explained to him, as much as he could, what had happened and what Henry’s treatment should be. Henry was placed in one of the ground-floor bedrooms with Dr. Mortimer at his side, keeping watch. The rest of them gathered in the sitting room, Barrymore quietly restoring order. His calm, competent presence was a comfort to all, and Mrs. Barrymore was quick to provide hot tea and whiskey and orange-currant scones.

Holmes settled in next to Esmeralda at the tea table and was gently interrogating her as John sank further into the chair by the fire and continued his conversation with Sherlock.

_He’s lucky to be alive._

**He’s lucky _you_ were there. Cardio-pulmonary resuscitation wasn’t routinely taught and practiced until the 1960s. Dr. Mortimer would have given him smelling salts or something equally useless and watched him die.**

_Well, I’ve given Mortimer a bit of an education tonight, albeit the short version; he’ll know what he’s dealing with and how to treat it, at least. Without proper tests, I’m only guessing as it is._

**Given all the facts, your diagnosis seems the most likely. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy appears to run in the Baskerville family.**

_Too bad I didn’t figure that out before we used him as bait._

**Don’t waste time with guilt; it’s over. He’s alive, and will probably live longer because of you, now that he and his doctor have an accurate diagnosis. If anything, you should be happy.**

John smiled at Sherlock’s completely aggressive, utterly endearing attempt to make him feel better.

_I’ll be happy when Roger Baskerville’s in custody and I’m on that bloody train back to London._

There was a pause before any more writing appeared, and John hoped it was because Sherlock was just as affected by the idea of John being home soon as he was. Their reunion had already been delayed by so many circumstances, and the anticipation was almost too much for John to bear.

**How soon can you begin tracking him?**

_Sunrise; about five hours off._

**You should sleep.**

_Doubt I could._

**Then you may as well stay up and talk to me.**

Grinning like a smitten idiot, John wrote back.

_Capital idea._

* * *

The summer sun rose with vigor the next morning, burning away the blanket of fog in swaths, so only small tufts of it remained in the lowest spots along the moor. While Barrymore and Mortimer attended to Henry and safeguarded the Hall, Esmeralda, Holmes, and John resumed their hunt.

They spoke only as much as necessary. Esmeralda led the way, fueled by her love for Henry and her desire for revenge upon Baskerville. She marked out a winding path towards the center of the mire, where the villain’s hideout lay. From here they could already see the slightly mounded earth, the three gnarled trees and a solitary stone hut at the top of its gentle crest.

John, for his part, felt a constant impatience zinging through him, his eagerness to return to London--and his fear that once again, another loophole might prevent him from returning to his proper home--making him irritable.

As they came closer, Esmeralda’s zeal increased, and she rushed towards the little island, ignoring Holmes’ previous instructions for a surreptitious approach. She shocked them by nearly dancing across the moat of mire that surrounded the island--a ten-foot-wide ring of black murk of unknowable depth. It wasn’t until John was right at the edge of it that he could see the mostly submerged stepping stones that marked a path across to the island.

He and Holmes proceeded as quietly as they could, but Esmeralda had already reached the doorway of the stone hut at the island’s center, coming to stand under its lintel like winged Victory.

“God damn it,” John muttered as she disappeared inside, and, of course, not two seconds later she emerged again--with Roger Baskerville behind her, one arm ringing her neck tightly, the other holding a pistol to her ribs.

John leveled his revolver at Baskerville though he held Esmeralda tightly in front of his body as a shield. She, however, looked more angry than afraid, her countenance hard, her jaw tight.

“Throw down your weapon, Dr. Watson, or I shall be forced to shoot my lovely ‘sister’,” Baskerville said, his voice mostly steady.

“I think I won’t,” John answered, narrowing his eyes.

“And rightly so, Watson.”

Holmes stepped away from John’s side, putting distance between them, and Baskerville’s dark eyes darted from one of them to the other as though he weren’t sure which he should be more wary of.

“Stop there, Holmes, or I’ll shoot her.”

A smile curled Holmes’ lips. “No you won’t. You’ve injured your right ankle enough that you’re effectively hobbled; your only chance of escape is with Miss Torres’ assistance, or you would have tried already, before we arrived. In killing her, you forfeit any hope of getting out of the mire alive.”

Baskerville glared at Holmes. “Even so.” He jabbed the muzzle of the gun against Esmeralda’s side, and she let out a yelp of pain. “I’ll have you and Dr. Watson move up the path a bit, please.”

John stayed where he was, gaze never leaving Baskerville, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Holmes moving to comply, walking backwards up the path towards the hut.

“Do as he says, Watson,” Holmes said, and it took all of John’s faith in Holmes to move himself back, though he did not lower his gun. Baskerville maneuvered himself and Esmeralda over towards the stepping stones, using her body almost as a crutch though he still winced in pain with each step.

“Our main concern is Miss Torres’ safety, of course,” Holmes said as John reached his side. “Are you quite all right, Miss Torres?”

Esmeralda looked absolutely murderous and simply glowered at Holmes.

“It’s been quite a trying morning, after all. Are you sure you’re not feeling a bit . . . faint?” Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

John watched in surprise as Esmeralda’s eyes widened with comprehension, and without warning she dropped, making her body dead weight in Baskerville’s arms. Baskerville scrambled to regain his hold, but Esmeralda lay flat on the ground, and it was enough. The shot from John’s revolver hit Baskerville across his shoulder, and he stumbled back, his feet nearly in the mire.

A half-step ahead of Holmes, John rushed forward, attempting to take the pistol Baskerville still held in his hand, but despite his injuries, Baskerville landed a hit with the butt of the gun, and John felt the skin split along his temple. Too close to be effective, Baskerville still tried to point the gun at John, but then there was a swift movement at John’s side and Baskerville suddenly cried out in pain and dropped the pistol. Holmes had thwacked Baskerville’s wrist with a branch so hard that John had heard the bones rattle and crack, just as Esmeralda had reached out with a swift kick to Baskerville’s injured ankle. Wasting no time, John planted his back foot and delivered a solid uppercut to Baskerville’s chin, the impact propelling Baskerville backwards. He landed squarely inside the moat, his body making a sickening thud rather than a splash against the tar-like mire.

Though anyone who lived on the moor knew that struggling against it would only entrench one further, Baskerville fought back against the squelching slime, only to have his body begin to sink into the fetid, murky depths. John felt no desire to rescue him, and Holmes also made no move to save him, both of them standing still upon the shore.

Esmeralda pulled herself up, her dress torn and filthy, her eyes cold as steel as she watched Baskerville’s body be pulled deeper into the moat. Only his head and one hand remained above the black muck, and fear entered his eyes, his fingers seeming to reach for the woman on the shore, only a few feet away.

“Esmeralda, _mi amor_ , don’t let me die like this,” he begged. “Save me.”

Taking a step forward, Esmeralda squatted down to better meet his eyes with her own, and a flicker of hope entered Baskerville’s desperate gaze.

“ _Vete al diablo_ ,” she said, her voice a deep and vengeful curse against him, and she stood to her full height on the safe and solid shore.

Eyes glinting with anger, Baskerville tried to surge forward, his mouth widening in a vicious snarl, but the unforgiving mire pulled him back down, for good this time. His head dipped below the surface, his fingertips disappearing last beneath the uncaring murk that finally claimed him.

Turning her back, Esmeralda strode away, up to the hut, leaving John and Holmes at the shoreline.

“Well,” said John, stowing his revolver. “That was . . . awful.”

Holmes let out a quiet laugh. “A clear grasp of the obvious, as always, my dear Watson.” He handed over his handkerchief, and John took it gratefully, swiping at the blood that had trickled down over his eye and then holding the cloth firmly against his temple.

With an impish smile, Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the moor. “I do hope that when you chronicle this little adventure of ours that you manage to infuse it with a bit more, if not eloquence, then at least detail.”

“Sod that,” John said, grinning. “We’ve a train to catch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Though not described in graphic detail, there are two deaths here, one of an animal and one of a person (minor character). The poor hound, alas, dies, and so does the murderer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gracious thanks to my Armada for her insights on this chapter. She makes me better in so many ways. <3

**Chapter 13.** _In Which There are Sighs and Rain and All is Well._

 

Holmes was quiet on the train as it made its way--so slowly, entirely too slowly--towards London, towards the future, towards home. He had hardly said a word to John, instead letting his sharp-eyed focus soften as he looked out the window at the greenery whizzing by. John thought he almost looked wistful, as though he were remembering something John was not privy to.

John, on the other hand, had his eyes drawn over and again to the blank page before him, pencil in hand, and yet he hadn’t written a word. Somehow, now that there was time to write, no impending murder to prevent, he and Sherlock had fallen quiet as well, and John’s thoughts flitted back and forth from present to future, settling on neither for very long.

The goodbyes that morning had been surprisingly emotional for John. He had not been overly fond of the moor, certainly, but he had become invested in Sir Henry’s well-being, and found himself repeating all of his instructions to Dr. Mortimer before he left. Grateful almost beyond words, Henry had entirely forgiven them for using him as bait for the hound, and shook John’s hand vigorously when it was time to depart. Esmeralda had been at his side, having taken on the role of nursemaid to Henry, which he seemed inordinately pleased about, and John was certain Holmes would receive a wedding invitation from them soon.

Taking leave of Barrymore had been the hardest. Other than Holmes, of all the people John had met in this present, John had felt the strongest kinship to the stoic butler, whose intelligence and loyalty had kept both Henry and John not just safe but well-cared for throughout the entire ordeal. He would not soon forget the determination in the man’s eyes when they had gone together out onto the moor, nor the firm but caring hand that placed a blanket about John’s shoulders and propelled him upstairs when he had returned from it. That Barrymore had taken John’s hand when he offered it this time, and shaken it warmly, was sign enough to John that their respect was mutual.

And though he was beyond eager to return to his own time, his own Sherlock, John did not look forward to saying goodbye to Holmes. There was so much he could say, and yet it felt a bit redundant--any sentiment he expressed would be repeated and amplified a thousand-fold by the Watson who would return to him should their transfer succeed, and yet John wanted Holmes to know what it had meant to John to have Holmes by his side throughout this adventure.

And yet, his thoughts drifted back to Sherlock, back to imagining what their reunion might entail--and how they could live up to what they had written to each other.

He looked up from the journal in his lap to see Holmes looking back at him, a bittersweet fondness in his eyes, in the curl of his lip, and John gave a sad smile in return. Once again he had the sense that Holmes was reading his mind.

“You’ve already taken the hardest step, you know,” Holmes said, indicating the leather-bound journal with a wave of his finger.

John tilted his head. “Maybe. I don’t know how long it would have taken us to say these things otherwise.”

“Precisely my point, Watson. There is a power to the written word that goes beyond anything one could say aloud. It has a permanence and an intent behind it. After all, where would any Holmes be without his Watson’s shamelessly embellished chronicles of their adventures?” Holmes asked, a small smile at his lips.

John smiled in return and looked down again at the journal on his lap, the pencil between his fingers. Even as their hour of farewell approached, John’s fondness for Holmes continued to grow. With a glance at Holmes’ perceptive eyes, John thought perhaps it was not necessary to voice it, after all.

* * *

Standing before the door at 221 Baker Street, John hardly knew what to feel, emotions shifting and undulating within him like a restless sea. Holmes turned the key in the lock--Mrs. Hudson being out, it seemed--and they stepped inside together. As Holmes climbed the seventeen steps ahead of him, John lingered, his hand trailing along the wooden banister that was both alien and familiar against his fingers.

Once inside the flat, Holmes slowly removed his gloves, his coat. “Have you thought about what to do with the journal?” he asked softly.

John’s eyes traveled over the sitting room as he considered Holmes’ question, his gaze mapping the topography of Holmes and Watson’s life together.

“I think I should leave it here.”

He turned to look at Holmes. “It belongs to Watson, after all.” Holmes gave a little nod, and looked so much like Sherlock in that moment that John could not help smiling. “Besides. Whether this is time travel or . . .” He shrugged. “ . . . something else,  I can’t help but think if I’m meant to have it, it will find its way to me again.”

Holmes returned the smile, and John wondered if that’s what his own looked like--affection and sadness twined.

“Ever the romantic.”

“It’s in the genes,” John said. He lifted his eyebrows and gave a shrug. “Maybe.”

Holmes gave a laugh so slight that John might have missed it had he not been so close to him, so soft and short was it that it melted into silence as they stood there. The quiet lingered between them, and John could hear his own breathing, could hear the snick-snick-snick of the watch in his waistcoat pocket, marking the seconds.

“Are you ready, Dr. Watson?” Holmes asked, and it was almost a whisper.

John looked up, his eyes shining. “No.” He smiled. “And yes.”

* * *

Alone at the foot of the stairs up to his room, John opened the journal and wrote.

_Baker Street. Will be ready in fifteen minutes. You?_

The answer came immediately, one word seeping onto the page.

Checking the pocketwatch, John marked the time and went upstairs.

Having had a few days practice, he undressed efficiently, leaving all of the borrowed clothes upon the armchair in the corner, from shoes to cravat to braces. He found his pajama bottoms tucked neatly in a drawer. They had been cleaned and pressed, and the cotton fabric felt warm and soft against his legs as he pulled them on and tied the drawstring.

Still unsure whether sleep had anything to do with the transfer and unwilling to take any chances, John climbed into the bed. He slipped under the duvet and arranged himself, the journal in one hand and the pocketwatch in the other.

Snick. Snick.

It was time. He opened the journal and lifted his pencil to write on its pages for what he hoped was the last time.

_It’s been amazing, but I, for one, am ready to go home._

He set the pencil down and pushed the journal away, propping it up against a pillow so that he could still see it, but not reach it easily.

Letters formed on the page a moment later, and John could tell from the wording that it was Watson writing now, not Sherlock.

**Likewise, Dr. Watson. Let us return to where and when--and with whom--we belong, each to each.**

John smiled at the sentiment, a fluttering in his chest at the thought of with whom he belonged. He had imagined their reunion so many times; that it might actually happen in the next few moments seemed unreal, and he felt a zing of anticipation run over his skin. Would Sherlock be waiting in his room? Would he wake John the way Holmes had wakened him, with caresses and a kiss?

Snick. Snick.

He felt the tick of the pocketwatch against his palm like a heartbeat, calming him, slowing his own heart as his thoughts blurred and softened with a drowsy hum.

Snick. Snick.

He closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

Snick. Snick.

John opened his eyes immediately, as though the ticking of the pocketwatch had been a klaxon sounding in his ears. It still sat cradled in his palm, but a quick look across the pillows showed that the journal was gone.

He sat up, feeling the familiar quilt underneath his hands as he moved it aside, and he stood up, his feet on the wooden floors.

It was dark, and the rain pelting the bedroom window was the only sound John could discern. He reached for the lamp he hoped was there, and felt the first twinge of relief as his hand found the switch and turned it.

Nothing happened.

He walked carefully to the window, drawing the curtain. The storm outside had darkened the sky, though, if John had to guess, he’d say it was only early evening yet. It seemed to have knocked out the power as well, and John opened the curtain completely. In the low light he scanned the room around him.

No washstand, no wardrobe, no riotous fern.

On the dresser, his wallet, receipts, keys--

His phone.

Relief came over him in a wave, and he shuddered with the force of it, letting out a shaky exhalation. He was back, back in his present, back where and when he belonged--

All his thoughts converged into one. _Sherlock._

With singular intent, John threw open the door and pounded down the steps, muscle memory guiding him in the dark. He nearly jumped down to the landing and went running into the darkened sitting room. He skidded to a stop in front of the coffee table.

The weak light outside angled in from the open curtains, the room all slate blue and granite grey, dreamlike and strange. An orange glow surrounded the fireplace, a beacon of warmth in the cold room. Sherlock was sat in his armchair, his very un-Victorian leather and steel armchair. He looked up, the glow from the fire enveloping half his face with golden light, and John thought he’d never seen a sight more beautiful in his life.

“John.”

John took three steps and slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, his fingers sinking into Sherlock’s inky curls. Sherlock leaned his head back, seeking to keep eye contact as John loomed over him.

“ _Are_ you?” If he had paid attention to his own voice, John would have heard how it cracked and stuttered, might have discerned the ragged emotion there, but he could only repeat his question without thought to how it sounded. “Are you _my_ Sherlock?”  

His eyes danced over Sherlock’s body, scanning his face first, the widened crystal-blue eyes, the parted, bow-shaped lips. John’s eyes dropped to take in Sherlock’s clothes--striped pajama bottoms, grey t-shirt inside out, the tartan dressing gown that Mrs. Hudson gave him last Christmas--but it wasn’t enough, he had to be sure. His hands moved to grip the lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown, fisting around the fabric and pulling Sherlock up to standing. Sherlock’s breath quickened, his eyes darting over John, no doubt observing every detail, and John was almost sure, very nearly sure, but he had to know. He pushed at Sherlock’s clothes and began lifting his shirt. Seeming to know what John was looking for, Sherlock grabbed the hem of his shirt and bunched it up, holding it out of the way. Torso exposed, Sherlock stood still as John’s hand found its target.

His fingers would know it in the dark, the thin, long line of slightly raised tissue along Sherlock’s lower ribs. John had stitched it up himself, in the kitchen, Sherlock whinging the entire time as John carefully sutured his skin back together. Now, as he let his finger slide against the scar, Sherlock’s belly pulled in, and John could hear his breathing become rough, heavy. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him with darkened eyes, his gaze full of more emotion than John had ever seen in him before.

John became aware of everything at once--the sounds of the thunderstorm outside their windows, the glint of firelight off the steel frame of the chair, the feel of Sherlock’s bare skin beneath his fingers, warm and soft, and Sherlock’s voice like molten silver in his ears.

“I am yours.”

Sherlock’s words acting like a catalyst, John surged up and forward, reaching for Sherlock just as Sherlock reached for him.

Their lips met in a crush, and John whimpered immediately, one hand going to the small of Sherlock’s back, the other sliding along his nape and holding him close. Sherlock’s mouth opened over his lips, and John followed suit, their kisses messy and fast, both of them making up for lost time. Pulling Sherlock closer, Sherlock’s chest pressed against John’s own, Sherlock’s warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the contact sent a shudder down John’s spine. Sherlock groaned in response, the sound rumbling over John’s lips since it was impossible to stop kissing. John grasped every sensation tightly, feeling every breath as warm affirmation against his cheek, every touch of Sherlock’s fingers like lifelines across his skin.

Sherlock tightened his arms around John, and their kiss deepened. He pulled at John’s lips with his own, darted his tongue out to trace John’s teeth. It still felt surreal, to be home, to be kissing Sherlock, without one of them turning away, without--

John pulled back abruptly. “Please tell me Mrs. Hudson isn’t home.”

The shock on Sherlock’s face transformed suddenly into understanding. “I sent her to her sister’s,” he answered, his voice fast and breathy. “She won’t be back until after the storm.”

“Oh, that’s _brilliant_.” John reached up for another quick kiss, a crooked one since he was grinning. “ _You’re_ brilliant.”

Eyes widening at John’s praise, Sherlock gave a little smile of his own before desire entered his gaze again. Before John could think, Sherlock was wrapping his arms around John and kissing him again with such force that his momentum made John stumble backwards. John reached out a hand behind to steady himself, knocking over a pile of books from the desk before his arse bumped into its wooden edge. Sherlock nearly fell into him, his body crashing against John’s, but the grunt John let out was more pleasure than pain. Sherlock’s body pressed warm and solid along his own, so reassuringly tangible, the reality of him everything that John had imagined it would be and more.

Questions tried to invade the cloud of happiness and desire surrounding John’s mind, but the physical truth of Sherlock, the way his hands and mouth reached for John, were providing the most important answers.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock growled, maneuvering himself between John’s legs.

John laughed against Sherlock’s lips. Never in a hundred years did he imagine Sherlock giving him such an order. The laugh seemed to spur Sherlock on, and he moved forward, putting one hand amid the mess upon the desk behind John to steady himself, but the pile of papers shifted beneath his palm and he slipped forward, pressing John back onto the desktop.

“Ah!” John yelped, something with hard edges digging into his lower back. Sherlock scooped John up with one arm, lifting him to sitting, and reached around with his other hand to pull out the offending item.

The damn sudoku cube.

John frowned at it, and Sherlock looked as though he might hurl it through the window for daring to interrupt them.

“Hey.” John curled his fingers around the cube, pulling it gently from Sherlock’s grasp.

The flash of apprehension in Sherlock’s face made John certain a little bit of thinking would be a good idea. He set the cube down on the desk and looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, and he could see the fear trying to take hold, as though Sherlock thought if they stopped they might never start again. And John could not let that fear bloom. He smiled softly.

“There’s no rush. No Mrs. Hudson. No case. No ‘enchanted journal’ to whisk me away.”

Sherlock remained very still, his eyes riveted to John’s.

“We can do whatever we want. For as long as we want. We have time.”

Though Sherlock’s expression shifted, the tension easing a little along the corners of his eyes, John sensed he still had questions.

“You’re not having second thoughts about . . .” Several options of what to say seemed to flicker over Sherlock’s face as John watched. “What you wrote?”

“I meant every word,” John said, and suddenly part of him wished he still had the blasted journal, because Holmes was right. There was something reassuring and solid about the written word, a tangible declaration one could go to again and again. But since it was back with Holmes now, John would reassure Sherlock in other ways.

“I am having all manner of thoughts, but _none_ of them involve changing my mind about . . .” John looked down at the space between their bodies and then lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s lips, his eyes. “About _this_.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together and his gaze darted away. “Good.” When he looked back at John, his eyes were shining. “That’s . . . good.”

Smiling, John pulled Sherlock into his arms, nestling his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s hands seemed unsure of where to go at first, but then it was as if Sherlock finally believed him, and John felt long, wide hands roaming over his back, one settling on his nape, the other trailing down to grip John’s arse and press him closer. Content beyond words, John hummed against Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock gave a little gasp and seemed to fold in around him.

_Ah_ , thought John. It was as if he’d found a secret place on Sherlock’s body, one to claim as his own--the first of many such places, he hoped. He nuzzled up against Sherlock’s long, smooth neck, his lips parted and dragging beneath Sherlock’s jaw, over his Adam’s apple, across to the tender spot just beneath his ear. Sherlock shuddered in his arms, gasping, and John smiled against skin before finally kissing Sherlock there, sucking and nipping along Sherlock’s neck until Sherlock grunted and yanked John forward, pulling him into a crushing embrace, their lips coming together in an ardent, demanding kiss.

“Bed?” John asked, once he had the chance.

“Too far,” Sherlock said quickly before dipping down to kiss him again.

The next moment John could speak, his voice was a breathy wreck. “Sofa?”

Sherlock mumbled something vaguely assenting against John’s lips, and they began an awkward dance over to the sofa, unable to keep their hands or their lips off each other for more than a second at a time.

They managed it, half-falling onto the cushions in a jumble of limbs, but soon enough they were entwined. The flat filled with sounds of sighs and rain as they found each other, bodies and souls right where they belonged.

* * *

It poured for the next three days, the rain relentless over London, flooding her streets and sequestering her inhabitants. John Watson didn’t mind. He spent his nights and mornings ensconced in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock nearly adhered to him in a way that was both surprising and not surprising at all.

During their waking hours, things were surprisingly normal between them. John had expected a bigger shift in their routine, some sort of sea change, but was relieved that so far Sherlock treated him exactly as he always had. The only addition to their normal behaviors now was that, from time to time, when a touch or a look lingered, they chose to indulge it--and John made good on his word, inviting Sherlock to explore and experiment with him as much as he liked.

It was perhaps too soon to tell how it would continue once they were out in the world, among other people, not holed up in 221b, which was, for once, quiet and utterly private. John would look upon those days as a crucial period, a time of imprinting, both of them learning to trust this new facet of their partnership.

The storm finally broke on the third morning, the sky a flat and even grey. Though no new rain fell, the streets were wet still without sunlight to dry them. John looked down onto the asphalt below and thought of cobblestones.

“Walk?” he asked over his shoulder to Sherlock, who was fussing with toast in the kitchen. Sherlock said nothing, but when John walked over to pull on his jacket, Sherlock was beside him, great coat and scarf wrapped around him like a cloak.

It was early yet, and very few people were out in Regents Park. Only a couple of bleary-eyed dog owners walked their charges along the path by rote, and there was no queue at the coffee cart.

In two minutes they were walking side by side, comfortably silent, coffees in hand. As they strolled down the central path, more people began to appear, though it was hardly crowded. A few dedicated joggers trotted by, a mother frowned at her two toddlers gleefully stomping in puddles. A man and a woman passed, walking slowly and holding hands.

John thought back to Holmes, the easy way he linked arms with John as they had walked down the street, no one looking at them askance or even taking notice, and he had a sudden desire to do so with Sherlock, to be affectionate in public with him without consequence. He wondered if such a thing would ever be possible.

When Sherlock slid his hand out from his pocket and offered his arm to John, the feeling of gratitude at having a friend who could read him so well threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared his throat and slipped his hand through the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, and they walked and walked, together, through the park.

* * *

On the fourth day, Mrs. Hudson returned. John, of course, had been mid-snog with Sherlock when he heard the door opening, the cabbie helping her in with her bags.

John pulled back a moment. “Are we . . .” John searched for the right words but all he could pull together was, “Are we telling people?”

“Telling people what?” Sherlock said, but then immediately kissed him, unconcerned with John’s answer.

“That we’re . . .” Again, words failed him.

“Are you sure you’re a writer?” Sherlock asked, scrunching up his face at John.

John frowned at him. “Are we telling people that we’re together now?”

“We’ve always been together,” Sherlock said, answering John with kisses.

* * *

Of course, when Mrs. Hudson came up a short time later with a pile of mail, she squeaked with joy to find Sherlock snuggled up against John on the couch and nearly dropped the armful of envelopes and packages she carried.

Sherlock had been using John’s lap as a pillow as John stroked his hair, but now John gave him a push. “Get up, you big cat, let me help Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock pushed up to sitting with a glare for both of them.

“Oh! No, don’t get up, it’s fine,” Mrs. Hudson twittered, her grin spreading from ear to ear. “I’ll just leave these here, shall I? You two stay right where you are.” She set the pile of mail down on the low table in front of the sofa and gave a little half-twirl, as though she were unsure what to do next. She waved a hand at them and another little squeak escaped her, and John thought she might cry.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Fine! Oh, perfectly fine.” She smiled widely and sniffed. “I’ll bring up your tea later, dears. I’ll call first, shall I? Yes, I’ll call first.”

“You don’t have to call first, Mrs. Hudson; this is your home,” John said.

“She might want to,” Sherlock warned.

Another squeak.

“A knock is fine. A knock works,” John said, realizing Sherlock was probably right if they didn’t want to give Mrs. Hudson an eyeful accidentally.

She nodded, over and over, and then she turned and retreated back down the stairs. Even with a story between them, John would swear he could still hear her smiling.

“She’s calling everyone she knows, you know,” Sherlock said, standing up and yawning. John only nodded as Sherlock wandered off towards the kitchen, and his eyes strayed over to the pile of what looked like a week’s worth of mail. One large manila envelope stood out among the rest. It looked strangely familiar to John, so much so that he fished it out to read the front of it.

He lifted it in his hands and his heart nearly stopped.

“Sherlock.”

“What?” came the shouted reply.

“What happened with the Henry Knight case, after I . . . left?”

“I gave it to Mycroft. He and Lestrade took care of it. Took them twice as long as it would have taken us, of course.”

“And the items Dr. Mortimer left here?”

Sherlock came back, half a biscuit dangling from his mouth. “I gave him those as well, obviously.”

John held up the envelope and Sherlock halted mid-step. He pulled the biscuit from his mouth.

It was the same envelope that Dr. Mortimer had brought with her the afternoon she’d hired them, and from the weight of it in John’s hands, he was fairly certain what was going to be inside. Sherlock came around as John opened the envelope and emptied its contents onto the table.

Bits of paper, photographs . . . and a small, leather-bound journal.

The yellow sticky note on its cover had Mycroft’s handwriting.

_Came across this at Baskerville. Thought you both might want it back. After all, one should always have something sensational to read in the train. --M.H._

John’s breath left him. “Jesus.”

“Bloody Mycroft!” Sherlock tore the yellow note from the cover and crumpled it in his fist. “He read it!”

“ _That’s_ what you’re upset about?” John shouted. He pointed down at the leather-bound book. “Sherlock, it’s the journal!”

“Well-spotted, John.”

“ _The_ journal. The enchanted item that transports people, specifically _me_ , to times other than their own.”

Sherlock seemed finally to see John’s point. “We can’t keep it in the flat.”

“We can’t let anyone else get a hold of it either,” John added.

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, settling on the ceiling.

* * *

They bought a strong box with a combination lock, and took it up the three flights of stairs to the attic, along with the journal and the pocketwatch.

Crouching down in the corner farthest from John’s bedroom, behind the old, sheet-covered furniture and dusty boxes, they opened the box. John held up the pocketwatch, still ticking its constant snick-snick, and laid it inside, tucking its chain in along with it.

Sherlock held the journal, as much superstition as precaution. They were fairly certain that only John actually writing on its pages could trigger the transfer of Watsons, but the specific mechanics of the journal were still rather mysterious.

John watched as Sherlock opened the book one last time, turning to the last written page. John’s final note was there, composed on the train as they made their way back to London.

_My Dear Holmes, I cannot fully express my gratitude at having you by my side these last few days, both before and after you discovered the truth of my identity. To have you with me, your intelligence and warmth, gave me hope and comfort in an impossible situation. I wish you and your Watson all the best. --JW_

Sherlock looked up from the words with the smallest of frowns, a look John knew well. He gave a little laugh, and Sherlock smiled, his grin replacing the feigned pout. Looking down again, John saw a new line of text that had been written below his note to Holmes.

“Look, Sherlock.”

_Received: One John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, safe and sound, moustache intact. Best regards always, Sherlock Holmes._

“Oh, thank God,” John breathed. “We should . . .”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to do it.”

But Sherlock was already ahead of him, pulling out a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket. Black ink seeped onto the page one last time.

**Received: One John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, safe and sound, sans moustache. Best regards always, Sherlock Holmes.**

Sherlock stowed his pen and looked up to John.

“Good.” He sniffed, emotions swirling inside him. “That’s good.”


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, I made [a pinterest board of things, images, and even recipes related to this fic](https://www.pinterest.com/shinysherlock/pins-related-to-watsonswap/). :) Also, a note of greatest thanks to Armada for betawork, to Esterbrook and significanceofmoths for fancy pen advice, and to neverrwhere for what shop John might visit. I am a lucky writer indeed to have such knowledgeable and helpful folk around me.

Weeks passed, and with the journal safely tucked away, John found his life filled with the sort of adventures he was used to--but also the sort he wasn’t. Of course, there was the usual running across rooftops and researching all night, but now he found himself in the wonderful but curious situation of romancing an amorous Sherlock.

Perhaps ‘romancing’ wasn’t quite the word for it; there weren’t flowers or chocolates or declarations of emotion. No, their wooing was entirely physical, often without preamble, and though John was hardly complaining, a part of him did miss the way they’d communicated in the journal. A side effect of this was that he’d found his investment in writing his blog renewed tenfold, as well as his interest in Sherlock’s reactions to his entries. But the blog was not exactly a sentimental endeavor.

When the solution occurred to him, his hand shot up to smack his own forehead.

_Obvious_.

* * *

He’d wandered into Marylebone High Street, still telling himself that he was just window shopping, but when he stepped inside the store it smelled of leather and fresh paper and he found himself standing at the counter with a new, blank journal in his hands. It was heavy, filled with thick, cream-colored pages, and the leather cover was a butter-soft nubuck, dyed a deep indigo. John couldn’t keep his fingers from running over it.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

Startled out of his reverie, John looked up at the saleswoman, an immaculately dressed older woman with dark brown skin, her greying black hair pulled back into a tidy chignon.

He could barely let the journal go long enough for her to ring it up.

“Will that be all for you today, sir?” she asked sweetly, and John almost said _yes, of course,_ but then he glanced down and saw the pens.

Well. In for a penny, in for several hundred pounds.

An hour of testing later, John walked out with the indigo journal and a shiny black fountain pen tucked in a bag under his arm.

That afternoon, while Sherlock was off at St. Bart’s Hospital, pestering Molly to let him use the chemistry lab, John sat at the desk in the sitting room of their flat and opened the journal to the first blank page.

He uncapped his ridiculously expensive new pen, ready to press the nib to paper . . . and instantly his mind went blank. He had thought he would come up with something clever, something poignant, but what he came up with was this.

_My dear Sherlock,_

_I’ve bought this lovely journal (which lacks magical properties of any kind) and a very, very fancy pen to write in it with. Perhaps you can deduce which one from the way the ink flows onto the paper. I’ll give you a prize, even._

_I can’t explain why I felt the need to spend an obscene amount of money on these items (oops, that’s a clue, I suppose) but the act of writing to you again, in this way, is utterly worth it, even if it means eating beans on toast for a few weeks._

_In these pages, I feel free to say the things I can’t seem to tell you face-to-face. Perhaps because if I have these feelings when I’m near you, I want to express them physically, not verbally. In fact, we’re pretty amazing at non-verbal communication, I’d say. In those moments, the only word that I can form is your name, over and over like a prayer._

_I think you know I love you, but can there be any harm in telling you, in putting it down in black and white?_

_I love you._

_Have for a long time, now. For all my complaining and sighing, you must know that there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side, and it is my greatest joy and privilege to do so._

_Yours,_

_John_

He wrapped the thin leather tie around the journal and left it on his side of the desk, sure that Sherlock would see it, sooner or later, and, sooner or later, read it. Walking over to the coat rack, John tucked the pen into the breast pocket of his shooting jacket and went about making dinner.

* * *

The next morning the journal was on the kitchen table between the microscope and five pieces of abandoned burst toast. John set down his black and white striped mug of coffee and untied the binding, his fingers sliding over the words he’d written, his eyes drawn to Sherlock’s response.

**I’ve loved you for ages.**

**And I know exactly what I’m prize I’m going to request from you. Something exquisite.**

**Something new.**

The words sent a shiver over John’s skin, a little shudder of anticipation and then the spreading warmth of a deep, resounding love. Below, Sherlock had written his first guess.

**Parker Centennial.**

John smiled and pulled out his pen.

_No._

* * *

**Waterman Exception.**

_Nope._

* * *

**Montblanc Starwalker.**

_Try again._

* * *

**Pelikan Souveran M600.**

_Time to collect your prize._

* * *

The light of the full moon spread into the dark spaces of John’s room, highlighting the curves of their entwined bodies in shades of blue and black. Boneless and sated, John lay half on top of Sherlock, his hand resting on Sherlock’s chest, tracking the rise and fall of his every breath as Sherlock dozed. He felt the heartbeat beneath his hand, calm and strong, and it seemed as though his own heart slowed its pace to match Sherlock’s rhythm, a soft thump thump, like the comforting snick snick of the pocketwatch marking time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading; this fic took almost a year to complete--real life requiring a four month hiatus in the middle there--and I appreciate all your patience and enthusiasm along the way. Hugs for everyone. <3<3<3  
> ~~~~~~~~~  
> Comments always appreciated. <3 (And if you're looking for more to read, I made a [fic index](http://shinysherlock.tumblr.com/post/105509221665) of my stuff by category which I hope is helpful.)


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